Diamonds
by kostanda
Summary: Does Terry Benedict ever get the girl? Who and how? Benedict/OC, but nearly true to character. Set before and during 13.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing with the franchise Oceans 11, or subsequent movies, the actors, characters, etc. Don't ask where this came from; mainly brought on by the husband making me watch movies and relax during the first trimester with baby #1 (finally). I shamelessly put my new protagonist into my day job; if you ever want to know what a wedding planner does, read on. But Grace is definitely cooler, calmer and poised with her work. Hopefully she comes across as a normal person, and not one without flaws. I also tried to stay true to form with Terry Benedict, though watching the movies when he's with Tess, he's definitely can be a bit intimate, so exploring that became interesting.

Review, but be kind...these pregnancy hormones are...well, not bad at all, but I'll use 'em as an excuse if your flame makes me cry. :) I hope you enjoy.

Diamonds

She was walking through the casino, her skirt stretching with her broad strides, her heels clicking on the buffed marble. The lights were dim and romantic, there was Tibetan incense burning in the corner, and the walls were draped in a semi-transparent silk. A gilded clipboard was clutched to her side, and the well cut black suit moved with her as she strode to the double carved doors at the end of the hallway.

"Denny – the lighting needs to be raised slightly, I'd like to see more white instead of yellow right now," she requested, brushing in through the doors and directing her head to a man in black who stood next to artfully hidden control panels.

As he moved instantly to accommodate her, she stopped and took in the ballroom. Chandeliers made of mango, pink and green roses hung lusciously over tables draped in raw silks and satin. Chairs of oak were draped with garlands of flowers, and centerpieces of towering candles in shades of green were getting lit. The scent of roses was mingled with delectable smells of the kitchen – curried salmon, roasted lobster and filet with garlic – she could tell that the appetizers were nearly ready for the guests.

"Grace, the ceremony is finished and went well?" Her assistant was at her elbow, her earpiece securely in place as she handed Grace one also; she confirmed that it was on the correct frequency. "Everything here is also ready to go."

"Yes, it's perfect. The guests will be arriving within the next half hour." Her perfectly manicured hands waved over the reception. "It looks marvelous."

Her assistant bobbed her head in pleasure and scurried off to another last minute detail. Grace shook her head and glanced at her checklist.

Another event nearly completed. This one by far her most extravagant, and in one of Terry Benedict's lavish casinos to boot. Her mind wandered to how she could capitalize on the efficiency and magnitude of this event on her website. Business always needed self promotion. Half the time she pushed brides for a certain look was to see a personal preference come to fruition.

A stir in the back of the room made her turn, and immediately melt into the background. The guests had arrived, and the bride and groom would be following shortly. She smiled tightly and happily. It was the best part of the day, to see the ecstatic couple walk into a fairyland of beauty that matched their style – she lived for their moment of exclamations and excitement. Somehow it always made the hours of hard work worth the effort.

"Grace! Oh Grace, it's magnificent!" The bride was suddenly there, radiant in her heavily beaded designer gown – her second costume change for the evening. She was flushed with excitement and champagne, and her tight lipped new husband was at her side. "Grace, I have to admit, I had no idea how it would all come together. This is amazing." His words were for her, but his eyes were on his bride as he slipped an arm around her waist.

She nodded and smiled and murmured soothing words of thanks as she guided them back towards their guests. Her assistant waved quickly and gave a wink across the ballroom. They all knew that this was the perfect moment of the evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It was two am. In the lobby of the plushest hotel on the strip, Grace kicked off her heels and breathed deeply, unabashedly massaging the balls of her feet, her shoulders finally relaxing, and her earpiece laying discarded on the seat beside her. The assistant had gone home, the bride and groom were up in their suite, and the night staff was cleaning up the last remnants of the dance and drinking. A wedding well finished. She felt satisfied and proud, though there could always have been something better, something done smoother...

"I have to say my ballroom was the best its ever looked tonight."

The voice floated above her, and she felt as though the world shifted slightly – was she dreaming? Surreal – who would care what the ballroom looked like at this hour?

With a shake, she stood, grabbing her iPhone automatically, and found herself face to face with a slightly familiar man. Discretely behind him stood two men who looked suspiciously like security guards. He was looking at her with interest, but with a detached air, as though she was a nice distraction – that she should be honored he stopped to talk to her.

"I'm very happy to hear you liked it; it was a beautiful evening. The clients were pleased. The casino was very accommodating to my requests." She said, unconsciously slipping back into her heels, which brought her face to equal his.

"I'll admit, I was not excited about all the changes you made to the room, it required a lot of extra work from my staff."

Suddenly it clicked. She was talking with Terry Benedict, the owner of the casino. Her heart rate dropped, then sped up tremendously. Their surroundings suddenly seemed too open – she longed for privacy, to relish these moments and his praise – his approval could garner her so many more high-end clients.

"But it was well worth the effort," she responded, meeting his eyes, striving to be the businesswoman. "And also your staff was compensated for the extra time."

He waved aside their wages, and then made a slight gesture with his decorative cane. "Will you have dinner?

"At two in the morning?" she asked, still slightly shocked at the eccentricities of Vegas.

"Well, then, a drink?" his eyes were discreetly sweeping her up and down, and he made a short stabbing motion again with his cane. Pushing off her fatigue, Grace nodded. Now was not the time to beg for a rain check, not when she could perhaps get his quote on her website, or a testimonial on official stationary...

"A drink would be lovely," she admitted. He waved his hand and she gathered her bag to follow him; unexpectedly he put a hand first on the small of her back, then her elbow, and moved her in the direction of the high roller bar; more private and virtually empty at this hour.

At his touch, she felt delicious excitement pooled in her loins. He might be older, and insanely rich, but for the first time in five years, she felt her body stir at the touch of another man. A man who, most probably, had his pick of women and was surely not going to pick a work-a-holic, slightly faded version of femininity. Grace focused on business, without extreme success.

The two bodyguards fell back instinctively as they walked into the plush lounge of the Bellagio, and with a barely discernable nod, a smooth waiter ushered them into a fashionable booth. The lighting was black and red; small candles shimmered low on the table, and she took in the rich fabrics and the heavy brocade on the seats, the sheen of raw silk on the walls. She couldn't help but run a hand appreciatively over the suede seat as she slid across from him.

"The usual," he said casually, softly, to the waiter, then looked calmly at her.

"Scotch. Neat – anything you've got that's over eighteen years old. Thanks." She smiled a vague but friendly smile that had slowly built her the small franchise that was now operating occasionally in Vegas. The waiter checked at her smile; appreciation seemed to be so rare in this city.

When she looked back at Terry Benedict, he was appraising her with the same detached suaveness, but a quirk of the eyebrow showed he was at least slightly impressed with her drink of choice. His dark hair was groomed back, his suit impeccably fitted, and his scent wafted over to her; deep, musky, manly. She felt flustered, nervous and out of routine, and assumed it showed a bit. She was used to finishing a job and unwinding – to stay on task was taxing.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, his voice low and chocolaty, a hint of a Cuban accent flavoring his vowels with a rough edge to it all.

"I do, Mr. Benedict," she nodded. "I appreciate the time to chat with you – I am certain you're a very busy man."

He waved his hand again, his dark eyes trained on hers. "As you said before, it is two in the morning. There is not much to do with the business right now."

There was a tiny lull, and she pulled her case onto her lap. "I should give you one of my cards, should you ever need anything. I'm –."

"Grace Bery, yes I know," he finished, but took the proffered card, barely glancing at the gilded name before it disappeared within a coat pocket with the flick of a wrist. A glimmer of a Rolex gleamed in the candlelight as he brought his hands back to the table. Everything about him was intimidating.

"Pardon the interruption, Mr. Benedict. Your drinks." Their waiter was extra attentive, serving them with nervous efficiency. His eyes followed her hands as she dipped her finger in the shallow glass and shook a single drop of water into the scotch.

"So, are we celebrating anything?" she asked, breaking the silence brought by the waiter's appearance.

"Celebrating? Not really."

"Oh." She took a slip of her drink, letting her inhibitions drop from her shoulders slightly as the heat of the drink hit her throat; her eyes closed for a minute with pleasure.

When she opened them, she saw Terry Benedict's eyes trained on her, now more acutely and with more intense interest. Her breath quickened, as she strove to keep any flirtation out of her actions. This was business – she wanted to be taken seriously. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought he was interested in her on a different level; best to leave it be.

"Well, then, what can I help you with, Mr. Benedict?"

"I want to discuss the New Years party for the Bellagio. I need to nail the competition hard this year, and I've been watching how you operate. You run a tight ship, Ms Bery. What do you envision?"

She smiled happily. This was her element; she could deliver.

"For the Bellagio? Hm. Well." She leaned back in the booth, stretching her shoulder blades through the tailored fabric of her suit jacket. Finding it uncomfortable to get creative, she slid out of it before grabbing the scotch and leaning back again, looking at the handsome man across from her with lidded eyes. It was moments like this that she forgot her age, and her past, and became timeless. Think about the ideas and nothing more.

"Well, there's no theme to try and hit, which is always more limitless," she began, swirling the drink before taking another sip. She watched him sample the whiskey on the rocks in front of her, and was happy when he also finally leaned back.

Smiling fully at him, as if they were partners in crime on this idea creation, she began to outline a brief party idea. Tantalize him a bit - this could be a big business deal.

"It's got to be rich, and glamorous. Old Hollywood in its prime. Rat Pack – get Regis in at least, Sinatra's son, you know the like – red carpets, celebrities, and champagne in the Antoinette glasses. It's got to feel hot, with paparazzi and orchids, floating streamers of flowers hanging from the ceilings, and some seriously cool and chic band line-up. A correlation of old and new; the Vegas of the past, and of the future. Reds, golds, creams – send out invitations in the thickest paper with gilding to all your biggest clients."

She continued to gesture and elaborate for another few minutes before stopping herself. "Am I boring you, Mr. Benedict?"

"Not at all," he waved off any apprehension. "I am impressed with your quick thinking."

"Part of the job," she shrugged, straightening back up.

"Then you're hired," he said briskly, and downed the rest of his whiskey in a hurry, barely sputtering as he straightened his suit jacket.

"Hired?" She suddenly panicked. "But there are so many particulars. For instance, I don't live out here permanently; we need to discuss which staff will handle daily operations—a contract—."

"You'll have a suite here at the Bellagio. I expect you to handle…daily operations." He stood. Business was finished. She left her half finished drink as she stood in difference to him; his smooth movements caught her off guard and her struggle to her feel was ungainly. "Bring the contract to my office tomorrow; someone will get it straightened away. Perhaps then I will be able to offer you dinner?"

She smiled, confidence an easy false front after years of practice despite her spinning head and whirling thoughts. "I would love to, but tomorrow night I've got dinner with my staff for a post-event meeting."

"Very well." He nodded to her, and began to move past, his sleeve brushing her bare arm as he moved away. Heady with his nearness and the prestige he had just offered, she spun after him, grateful the lounge was empty now so no one would see her beg after Terry Benedict.

"Mr. Benedict." He spun smartly on his heel as she said his name, his eyes meeting hers again; indifferent, cold. "Thank you for the drink. May I hope to see you again tomorrow night? Perhaps a little earlier—I like to see the latest light show on the waters."

He hesitated, then nodded, and turned around again, walking out onto the casino floor with purpose.

She watched him go, and finally breathed deeply, sinking back into the seats. Excited with the big job, she started to calculate the amount of work that would be spent on this project, and how much she'd have to continue to shuffle off on her staff at the headquarters in Boston. Pulling out a legal pad, she began to draft the particulars of the contract.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Terry Benedict walked straight back to his office for a cold glass of water before turning in for the night. He felt hot behind the ears, unnerved, and yet he walked with determination, his stride never faltering and his bodyguard escorts only leaving him once he was in the confines of his office doors.

Finally alone, he sat quickly in the oversized leather chair. After a brief silent pause, he brought out Grace Bery's business card.

She'd come on location three weeks ago. He had noticed her moving purposefully from one ballroom to the next, orchestrating schedules, construction, and even working closely with his chief of staff and two floor managers to handle the flow of the six hundred person Indian wedding that her company had brought in. They had spoken highly of her in the reports, murmurs from his staff had reached his ears about how fair and honest she was; something perhaps she brought from the east coast - it was a bit of an anomaly here. She'd never last.

Sophisticated Events and Management, her card read, in letterpressed gold on thick white paper. He brought the card to his nose, almost expecting part of her scent to linger on the paper, then pulled back, disgusted with the action.

Terry Benedict did not have time for himself, let alone a woman. His days were planned perfectly, and his one-time affair with Tess had left him upset and angry enough, though he'd never let on. Grace Bery had changed his certainty of the whole idea of living as a bachelor, without a girlfriend, when she'd first appeared in her smart suits and figure hugging skirts, dark hair pulled back ruthlessly. She wasn't beautiful; he'd truthfully call her quite average, but it was the discipline she exuded - false or no - that had attracted his notice.

Though it was uncharacteristic of him to relax at all, he leaned back and held her business card between his thumb and forefinger as he lightly closed his eyes and replayed the last half hour.

She had loved feeding him creative ideas, and she was good. Damn, was she! When she slipped off that blazer, finally showing some skin, he was thankful she had her eyes nearly closed – he had caught himself devouring her with his. Her skin was taunt, with rounded muscles and the delicate dance of her collarbones rose above the dusky satin of her shirt. He wondered how she would taste, if she would shudder with desire if he kissed her in the hollow of her neck. Stupid to think so quickly of sex; he didn't have time - at least not for anything other than a romp with a paid hostess.

Shaking himself, he sat back up. Foolish thought, to put her up in the hotel. Business was business; he should have offered her a rented apartment somewhere near the strip.

He chucked to himself ruefully; never let it be said that Terry Benedict was perfect; he'd just made the biggest rash mistake of the next several months. Having Grace Bery underfoot was going to be delightfully distracting, and with Japanese to still learn, and new installments on the vault at the Mirage, he didn't have time to be distracted.

Pausing, wondering if he should indulge, he finally turned to his monitors and flipped a few switches.

In his casinos, someone was always watching, and while he had learned that the hard way a few years ago, he still kept everything monitored and available at the flick of a switch. He pressed a few more buttons before she finally came into sight.

Sitting at the table yet, her scotch empty, she was finishing notes and chatting with the waiter. He shook his head, a smile at one corner of his mouth. Scotch! He liked her style.

He watched her slip into the blazer, once again hiding her pale skin - which was in bad need of a tan - and after glancing around, placed more cash on the table before sliding out of the booth on out of his sight again. Sighing, he flipped everything off again. She needn't have tipped; it was on the house.

Drinks again tomorrow. He knew he could eliminate most of her mystery by ordering a background check, but not yet. It had been years since a woman had grabbed his attention, and he was willing to wait and let it play out.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The next morning she forced herself out of bed moderately early. A quick swim and shower had her in front of the computer checking emails by seven am. Boston was three hours ahead and she had a lot of catching up to do since yesterday's wedding.

"Miriam?" She spoke warmly to the Boston secretary. "Can you put Shannon on? Thanks so much."

"Grace? How did it go?" Her executive planner came on her extension.

They went through a quick recap, punctuating with hilarious stories and small last minute fix ups. As Shannon walked her through the current clients and their status, Grace made notes and delegated.

"Can you have Miriam set up flights for all of you to fly to Vegas four days before the New Year? We don't have any New Year weddings this year, and we won't take any. I'll need all hands on deck."

"What for?"

"I'm booking the New Years gala for the Bellagio."

"Oh. My. God!" Shannon's gasp came through the wire and Grace smiled at her assistant's excitement. "How did you land it?"

"Well…apparently Terry Benedict likes his ballroom decked out to the nines."

There was a long pause, and she could almost hear Shannon's mind racing ahead to the work load, and the profits.

"This could be the biggest break – this could get us into the likes of Mindy Weiss, Preston Bailey – I mean—."

"I know, Shannon, trust me. I hardly slept a wink. But I have to get going and type up the particulars of the contract. Now, we need to talk about future. The New Year is in about four months. I've got to get vendors out here, and a budget and timeline together."

"How are you going to do all of that from Boston?"

Grace paused. She was going to be asking a lot of Shannon – basically running the company while Grace handled the biggest gig of the company's history.

"I'm not. Mr. Benedict gave me a room."

"You're going to live out of a hotel room for four months while you plan an event?"

"I'll be back in Boston occasionally. Obviously this is why I never got a dog," Grace said wryly. "But yes. It's worth it, you know it is, for the extent of this job. I'll need you to continue to run things like the past two weeks, and I'll give you twenty percent of this Bellagio job for the work."

Shannon's voice came in breathlessly. "What?! Twenty percent?"

"The shop needs to continue running every day. I can't be there. I trust you – you've put in four years, Shannon. Can you do this?"

There was another pregnant pause, before the panicked question. "Well, will you at least be back for the weekends for the big weddings? Especially the upstate Maine one, the New York one, the Boston—."

"Yes, all of those," Grace amended. "But can we do this?"

She could sense Shannon nodding before answering. "Sure. Of course."

They talked for a bit more before getting off the phone. A few routine calls to vendors and clients, and housekeeping paperwork before she moved to the laptop and began to punch out the contract.

Twelve pages later and five re-checks, and Grace was printing it out and finishing her make-up with a dab of Marc Jacobs Daisy. Slipping into a favorite white pencil skirt and matching blazer, she padded over to the waiting red plaid pumps. A little color to her wardrobe of mainly white, cream and grey was a signature look; one she was known for with her clients and vendors alike. It sometimes got expensive, but it sure as hell made packing easy.

Grabbing her tote, she slipped her lifeline iPhone into her pocket and strode out of her room.

After waving away a few taxis, she walked up the strip to the Bellagio office; it was late enough toward the afternoon that the sun wasn't too hot. With a decorative folder under her arm, the contract and her schedule for the next four months slipped in beside the important documents, she still found herself sweating by the time she walked in the air-conditioning. She was too nervous about approaching his office to stop in a restroom to check if her make-up was running. It probably was.

"Can I help you?" A middle aged blond woman sat at the desk leading to what she assumed was Terry Benedict's main offices.

"I'm here to drop off a contract."

"Your name?"

"Grace Bery."

The woman checked her list and seemed to hesitate with surprise as she looked up. "Well, Mr. Benedict has requested to manage your paperwork personally. Right through the doors, please."

With a nod, Grace walked through, trying to tame the sudden race of her heart. Would he be just as intimidating in daylight?

Unexpectedly, the door opened right to a singular office, and she stopped at the threshold, allowing her eyes to adjust to the natural light.

"Can I help you?" His gravelly voice came from behind an oversized leather chair behind the thick mahogany desk. She tried to compose herself before speaking; his voice awakened any submerged desires she'd tried to hide the evening before.

"If you have a moment Mr. Benedict; you wanted to see the contract personally, I'm told."

He spun around, and she caught the glimmer of a smirk before he caught her eyes and became a businessman.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Grace was visible in the mirrors next to his desk, and he allowed himself a moment of staring at her curves before turning around. He was surprised she was so early. If she went to bed when he did, that meant she either worked fast or didn't sleep last night.

"Ms Bery. Please have a seat." He gestured to the chair closest to the desk. She moved quickly to sit, set her purse on the floor and slid a folder across the shiny surface of the desk as if trying to prove her efficiency.

He took in the company logo, the letterpressed decorations, before opening to find a rather thin contract. His eyebrow raised, he looked up at her.

"This is it?"

She nodded firmly. "It's quite self explanatory. I prefer to do straightforward business, no gimmicks, no hidden agendas. Easier for all parties involved. The fee is flat rate and takes into account both the hotel room and the flights required to my headquarters in Boston. I require that we indemnify each other and outline my duties, as well as yours."

Pointing at each section on the first pages briefly, she added, "I do require fifty percent of the fee up front, Mr. Benedict."

He was pleased with her no nonsense attitude and professional tact for time. After reading the simple paragraphs of the contract quickly, he looked up at her and leaned back, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket and lighting it. After the first puff of smoke, he smiled slightly and pulled out a ballpoint pen.

"This looks to be in order, Ms Bery."

He signed it, then pushed it off to her for her signature. Watching her bold hand, he was taken with the veiny lines of her fingers and short, practical nails. She was powerful in a compact way, and he was glad to see she wore no ring – he had forgotten to check yesterday.

"Mary. Come and make a copy for me immediately," he didn't take his eyes from her as he pressed the intercom button for his secretary. Once she'd left the room with the paper, he went into his desk and dashed off a check.

"Fifty thousand," he said, and handed her the money order. "I think we're finished."

She smiled warmly at him, and he couldn't help but respond likewise.

"I'd like to thank you again for the drink last night, Mr. Benedict. I appreciate the chance for this event at the Bellagio."

There was a knock before he could respond, and he waved Mary in irritatingly. His secretary gave him a tight nervous smile as she laid the contract and copy on the corner of the desk.

"Thanks, Mary," Grace smiled softly at her, and his secretary left, nodding and flustered. Terry looked after her, recognizing that somehow this woman had stood him up in etiquette.

Turning back to Grace, he nodded in response to her statement. "It was nothing. I have high expectations for the next few months."

"How often would you like to have a meeting?"

"Daily." He could have kicked himself for the immediate response. Of course he did not have time to meet with her daily. Her smile faltered a little as she gently opened the contract to the end.

"I'm afraid that's not entirely possible. I've got prior commitments and contracts to brides out east. There are at least four weddings over the next few months that I must fly back to Boston to handle. They will only take four days each, max, from me. You'll have my undivided attention otherwise."

He nodded without listening, calculating how many times she'd be gone, thinking about where she'd live when she was in Vegas. Giving himself a mental shake, he realized he was diving in as he had with Tess. He'd jumped in then, letting her move in to his suite on site, letting her decorate the museums, managing all the artwork. She'd bailed on him unexpectedly, leaving him near broke and alone – though now, years later, he could no longer blame her. And you'd think he learned from that – now he was offering everything to this woman, trying to buy her off in the same way. Maybe Danny Ocean was right; maybe he was...predictable.

"I understand your previous engagements will sometimes take precedence," he said curtly. "I trust your work here will not suffer."

"Of course not." She drew herself up, and he realized how petite she really was, dwarfed behind his desk. In the morning light coming from his windows, he realized her skin was not truly pale, but a cream tan, and her dark hair had a reddish tinge.

He leaned back, and fiddled absent mindedly with his cane. "Then we're still set for drinks tonight?" He let out a breath when she also leaned into her chair and settled back. She crossed one curvy leg over the other and he caught a glimpse of a decorative red pump. Saucy; he liked it; she seemed to encourage intimacy from him, and while guarded, he felt like trying it out first. It was most probably a business tactic she was using. "You wanted to see the evening light and water show at my hotel; I have a perfect location for it."

"Really?" Her delight was genuine. "How divine! Where shall I meet you?"

"Here at my office. Nine o'clock." He could hardly keep a smile from creasing his face as she beamed at him.

"That is very kind of you. I look forward to it." She stood, clearing her skirt as she did and leaned over his desk, her hand coming halfway to grasp his. "I really do."

He refrained himself from the impulse of taking her hand in both of his, from kissing her palm. She was so businesslike he wasn't sure she'd stand for it, and was almost scared of getting called out – he had a feeling that she wouldn't let him get away with it.

As she moved near him, he caught a whiff of her perfume; delicate, watery and soft. He thought she would smell like incense and musk – most businesswomen preferred the heavy handed approach. As she bent to take up her purse, he took a puff on the cigar, his eyes traveling unwittingly down the lines of her hips and waist.

"Nine o'clock, then," he reminded as she walked out. She half turned at the door to nod, and he saw her unconsciously slip a hand in her pocket to pull out her iPhone – it had lit up with several messages during their brief chat.

"I—I can't wait." He watched delightedly as she blushed pink, nodded again, and left the office.

Bending down over her contract again, he heard her say good-bye to Mary as she left his office, and he was tempted to follow her with an excuse. It did no good to chase, he reminded himself. And he better do a background check now for certain; he had just essentially hired her. One could never be too careful anymore, not with Danny still at large these days.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Grace went shortly back to the Encore, where she'd been staying the week. After a brief fixed prixe lunch, she went back up and continued to work throughout the afternoon on other events and clients, plugging in her phone to keep the battery charged.

A bride wanted to change out her wooden dance floor for a colored one; Grace had to convince her that using the preexisting lighting to change the mood would be more cost effective. Shannon needed advice on a groom's preference for brightly colored tuxes. The lists around her grew, and the post-its continued to pile up until it hit five at East Coast time. Using an hour to organize her notes for the plane ride home the next morning, Grace stood and stretched, deciding it was a good time to check out the pool again. She rarely got a second to relax during busy season.

Pulling on a one piece white suit - gone were the days of the bikini - she yanked her hair into a messy bun and tied a white man's shirt over her arms before grabbing her notebook and headed down to the lobby.

The sun was still warm and golden, and she knew she looked pale next to the beach bodies a few chairs over as she settled in with her book on naval history and a pencil.

With the warm glow of the sun, Grace soon felt herself dozing off, and found herself thinking immediately about Terry Benedict. He was definitely smooth and slick, she amended, and she didn't trust him completely. As a businessman in this town, how could he deal completely honest with her, or let his guard down with her? While honored that he obviously wanted to spend time with her, perhaps it was purely a professional interest in the New Years gala – to make sure his casino was guaranteed the best event in town – and she should stop feeling like such a blushing maid around him. But who could help it? Did he know his effect on women? She was sure he did. His dark skin, the long hair slicked back made him look like he stepped from a 1950's plate, but it was with a touch of the rogue that he wore it, and the matching ties, vests, cravat. He was older, heavier around the middle than he probably liked to admit, but she found him attractive nonetheless. It was all a little exhilarating.

Pushing her sunglasses back up her nose, she laid the books at her side, and let herself daydream a bit.

A bit later, she felt the coolness of the setting sun on her legs, and realized it was nearly time to meet her part-time staff for dinner. She got up and gathered her few things and moved up and back into the hotel.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was nearly nine, and Terry Benedict was pacing his office, a single lamp still on. Grace would be arriving at any moment, and he was deciding whether to take his cane or not as a prop, when there was a quick knock at the door.

"Yes?" He realized it was now locked after hours, and moved to open it. She stepped through, and he couldn't help but take a sweeping look. A close fitting grey suede dress with matching heels hit her curves at all the right places. She must tailor all her clothing. Her arms and chest were bare, and she held a bright purple clutch, the light caught small diamonds in her ears. He had not expected to see her so exposed, her skin so near.

"Ms. Bery. I trust you're ready for a drink now?"

"Yes. Thank you for accommodating my schedule." She smiled at him; he detected her wariness, her expected shyness.

"Let's go." Forgetting the cane, he purposely put a hand on her back and guided her out. Her body was warm, but the brief contact of her skin was cool, and he forced himself to keep his touch light. The office door locked behind them, and he nodded at the one security guard on duty tonight that would follow them at a discreet distance.

"How was dinner with the staff?" he asked casually, trying to fill the silence.

"It was very nice. We did a post mortum. Always important," she offered, then after a beat, began to briefly fill him in on what they discussed. "I assume you may be interested in a few of these things, as they are part of your casino," she amended, and he nodded, half concentrating on her and half on getting them to the destination without interference from his work.

Successfully undetected, he brought them to a private dining alcove high in the hotel. It was a dark corner, lit mainly by candles and decorative floating lights. He had been here once or twice with Tess too, but they had never seemed to know what to discuss and soon the conversations had tried him too much; he had stopped coming here.

"It's lovely!" she breathed, and he watched her take in all the details; he saw her eye noticing the plushness of the carpet, the detailed damask on the walls, the real sheepskin draped over the leather chairs.

"Sir." A waiter appeared at his elbow, balancing a mirrored tray that held his preferred whiskey and one of the best scotches in the house.

Grace turned around, surprised, and he watched with delight as she lowered her eyes slightly to blush. She had to know he had taken the time to arrange this, and he waited with apprehension deep in his gut; would she be offended? This certainly was more of a courting atmosphere instead of a business one, but he couldn't help it. She was a pretty woman, and he wanted to impress her.

She slid smoothly onto the leather, the deep rust of the chair a stunning contrast to her skin and the grey of her dress. Looking up at the waiter and nodding, she then trained her eyes on his and smiled fully, and he saw the crinkles of skin at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She must smile often, he mused, holding her eyes and settling across from her and bringing the whiskey to his mouth. Wrinkles like that weren't just from sun.

"Thank you for this, Mr. Benedict. You're a very good host, very impressive service." In their secluded corner, her voice sounded quieter, she didn't have to talk over the sounds of the casino.

He watched the lights from the water catch the small diamonds in her ears again. She was a controlled person, nothing about her was too ostentatious, though he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Tess had been all about acquiring pieces of expensive art, which he had willingly obliged. Other women, a usual type in Vegas, wanted big things, usually jewelry. Grace, he mused, would look comical wearing gigantic rubies in her ears.

"I'm glad you notice it." He shifted his head to the wall of windows next to them, overlooking the water. "Now, I believe the show will start any minute. Shall we watch and then get to business?"

"Wonderful! I never get to see this much – always working. And this view is marvelous." She had stood, looking out, and turned to look over her shoulder and smile at him again. "Thank you, Mr. Benedict."

He got up, aware that he looked awkward doing so from the low chair, and went to stand next to her. In her heels, she still had to look up slightly to look him in the eye, and he purposefully stood behind her, keeping a good foot of space between them. He knew exactly where the security cameras were.

As the light show began, he leaned forward slightly and offered, "It's Terry."

He could feel her smiling, but her body was tight, wary, he saw it in the flex of her arms, the stiffness of her back. Was he standing too close? Well, she didn't have a choice, he was damned if he would retreat. He most certainly wasn't going to touch her, if that's what she was worried about. Glancing upward at the cameras, he frowned. Women.

It was a brief two minute show, but she turned around quickly afterwards, her eyes lit up with excitement.

"It never fails to make me feel happy. Thank you again, Mr. Benedict."

He looked down at her. Even without holding her, he could see a soft dusting of freckles on her nose, faded sunspots, and the sweep of eyeliner along her dark eyes. "I said, it's Terry."

She paused, looking him up and down. "Terry."

"Good. Let's get started then." He went back to his seat and she followed slowly, but shifted as she sat, closing the space between them. Under the table, her knee brushed with his, and he had to stop himself from concentrating on the sexiness of it.

"Now, Ms Bery, we'll need to get working immediately. Bands book up for New Years as I'm sure you know, and I've decided I want the ones we discussed yesterday as well as a few others."

He pulled out a list and handed it to her, and watched her frown in concentration. Absently, he pulled out a cigar and began to light it. Her head popped up at the sound of his lighter, and he paused. Damn, he had forgotten to ask if it was alright if he smoked. Damn propriety and damn etiquette. It was his casino, and working this close to a woman made him nervous. He finished lighting it.

To his surprise, she leaned in and breathed. "A very good Cuban – Romeo y Julieta?" She pronounced the Spanish correctly, and he had to catch himself from staring at her with his mouth open.

"No. El Rey de Mundo."

"Of course," she actually winked at him, and he realized she understood the translation.

"I'm surprised you know your Cubans, Ms Bery."

She took a sip of her scotch, then held out her hand. He stared at her, confused, and she beckoned with her fingers. "May I? It's been ages since I've tasted one."

He was so stunned that he handed it over to her without thinking. No one ever asked to share Terry Benedict's cigars. Watching her puff at it expertly, he found himself staring at her. Arranging his features back to a smirk, he took it back when she handed it to him.

"How do you come by them?"

He gave her a tight wicked grin. "I'm Cuban. There's family that sends them."

"Really? How lucky for you. It's very excellent. And so is this scotch."

"It's a fifty year," he mentioned, and watched her eyes widen. "Do you like it?"

"It's divine," she agreed, sampling it again. "We used to—cigars are a favorite pastime around campfires when I was younger."

"Younger?" He raised an eyebrow at her. She couldn't be far from thirty.

"In college, in my twenties." She saw his skeptical look and shrugged, leaning back. She seemed more at ease, less business-like tonight. "I'm thirty-seven, if you're wondering."

He held the cigar over his lips as he appraised her. She looked young, but he knew that could be deceiving. "You're full of surprises tonight, Ms Bery."

"Well, since we'll be working so closely for months, I figured we may as well loosen up a bit. I can't be so utterly professional all the time, it's wearing and it's not my style. This," she gestured to include him, the show, the scotch. "This is how I prefer to do business. Don't you think it's more relaxing?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Grace watched him as she asked the rhetorical question, wondering if she had gone too far, and he leaned back, the cigar suspended in his fingers. She liked his hands – strong, dark, large. In this lighting his skin looked smooth, like a milk chocolate. He was either smirking at her or agreeing, but he waited a minute before answering. It seemed that if Terry Benedict was anything, he was never hasty in talking.

"I agree, Grace."

Her heart raced for a second. Had he purposely used her first name? She knew she hadn't given him permission, and he was probably testing her now and she would fail. She liked the sound of her name in his accent.

"Good. Then you must try some of your fifty year scotch."

He hesitated. "It's not necessary."

"You don't like scotch?"

"Not really. It's almost too…sweet."

"Sweet? Hardly! Especially not this one. Here, you mustn't pass it up."

He paused again, then sighed. Leaning forward, he took up the delicate snifter and held it to his nose before taking a sip. She watched him expectantly as he put the glass back and then he took another drag on the cigar.

"Better than most, I'll admit. Still not my favorite."

"Well, then at least you've tried it."

"Hm." She worried for a minute at his nondescript sound. Had she crossed the line now? Her clients all preferred her casual style and meeting structures; it put them at ease and allowed herself to be truly genuine. Would Terry prefer to have business meetings instead? Something cold and fast? She doubted it; why would he set up this…romantic...place for a drink?

"Down to business once again. Can you look into those bands?"

"Of course. It's the job. Also, may I recommend the following ideas?" She pulled a folded bunch of papers from her clutch and a pen. "I know Vegas is all about costumes, so I thought we should bring in special costumes and actors to play the parts. Impersonators, if you will. Also, these traveling food stations dressed as Marilyn Monroe and others would be a big hit, don't you think? A combination of old and new?"

As he leaned forward, she watched with apprehension. Her sketches were brief and hurried; she hadn't brought her colored pencils with her to fill in the rest, and she hoped that he would approve of some of the details.

"You did these?" His eyes met hers and held them.

"Of course. I didn't bring a draft artist with me. Do you think it will work?"

He waved a hand casually. "Yes. Very good, very unusual. I like that. Go on."

She pulled out more sketches. "You'll have to forgive me, I don't have fabric swatches yet, but here's what I'm thinking for floral design. It will be very glamorous. Also, I'd like to build backdrops for the food stations, and have mini dance shows going on by each. It will feel very 1950's musical, but with modernized costumes."

She prattled on for what felt like long minutes while he sat and watched her, and commented briefly to direct questions. When she was finished, she sat back, apprehensively waiting for the verdict.

"If you'd like to take these things to look at, they're your copies."

He pulled everything toward him at the table and took another sip of the whiskey; finding it empty, he raised an eyebrow at an invisible waiter before he began shuffling through. His expression hadn't changed, and Grace found herself leaning forward, worried that her ideas weren't original enough, that it was too boring.

"Hm." He pulled on the cigar, and then unexpectedly handed it to her as he poured over the drawings closely.

She took it from him with relief. Something to do with her hands was very helpful, and she took a drag on it, her mouth tingling with the fact that her lips were pressed to where his had been. He didn't suck the end like many men; it was damp, but not slimy when she took a puff. While she preferred to abstain from inhaling, she loved the taste it left on her lips, and her tongue.

Their waiter was at their elbow, replacing his empty glass with a full one, and placed another scotch were she had a few sips left in the old one.

"It's fine. The drawings are impressive."

She couldn't help but sigh with relief, letting out the last of the cigar smoke. He folded it all up and put it in his breast pocket as she handed him back the cigar reluctantly. It tasted so good – none could compare to a Cuban.

"So, should we move forward?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Keep it under six."

"Pardon?"

"Keep the expense under six million, Grace." He nodded at her without smiling. "Do you think it's possible?"

"Very much so," she nodded, doing brief calculations. "I'll keep you posted on any changes, and will supply you with budgets and schedules."

She finished her first scotch, and the glass disappeared as if by magic. She began to feel the warmth of the drink in her belly, and looked at him wistfully.

"So, what do you do during the day with three casinos to manage? I mean, I assume our business is finished?"

He looked taken aback, as if he was unprepared for small talk, or unwilling. He continued to smoke the cigar before answering. "I manage. There are numbers to go over, marketing plans to approve, people to talk to, papers to sign, whales to see. And then there are the other things, the language classes, the—."

"Language classes! Tell me about those!" Did she detect relief when she asked? Were all the other subjects off limits? Or was he simply annoyed with her?

"I'm taking Japanese," he paused and looked at the cigar. "It's coming along well, but writing it is a pain in the ass. Phonetics are easier with it. But surely, Ms Bery, you don't want to talk about Japanese?"

Without thinking, she reached across the table and placed a hand over his where it was laying next to his drink. When he immediately withdrew it, she felt it like a little slap. Was her touch so vile? Placing her hands back in her lap, she answered truthfully, making sure to look him in the eye; she could easily snap back into business mode too, if that was what he wanted.

"Why not? It sounds interesting. Tell me about it, if you like."

Frowning, he sat forward, and began, slowly, to explain how his tutoring worked, and how he managed to fit it in between a quick work out and getting to his office, how his tutor never was satisfied with his calligraphy, and how he was sure he butchered half the pronunciation when he spoke to clients.

Grace was spellbound, listening to his husky voice and watching his face slowly relax as he lived through the morning's lesson. She cupped her chin in her hand and looked at him happily, murmuring that she was certain he said words correctly.

"Say something in Japanese, then," she requested playfully. She was determined to stay as herself, to make sure that he saw she would not be cowed by his coldness.

He glanced at her with surprise, then picked up his drink.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"You're beautiful in the candlelight right now," he said hurriedly before taking a big sip of the whiskey. For a moment he had a brief panic that he had said it in English by mistake, but she continued to look benignly at him.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Well, what did it mean?"

He felt warm under his cravat as he realized that he might be blushing. Could he tell her what he had said? It was so childish, but the whiskey was heating his stomach, and he found himself staring at her face, allowing himself to feel the attraction.

"I said you're beautiful." There was a strange release in saying it. Her face registered the words at once, and he was happy to see that it brought a smile that she could not quite control.

"Why thank you, Terry." It was the first time she had used his name willingly, and he found himself delighted that he wouldn't need to continue reinforcing it, as it was the only intimacy he could allow her.

"Why do you care so much about this Japanese nonsense anyway," he rejoined gruffly, uncertain with all the interest she was garnering toward him. It put him slightly off his element to talk with a woman about himself, about something more private. To talk at all, really.

"Like I said, it's part of you, your day, it's interesting."

He wasn't sure he could believe her. Didn't women find material things interesting, like diamonds, shoes, and lavish spas? She seemed so very genuine in her questions, and he realized it was because he very rarely allowed himself to reflect upon his actions and life that this felt uncomfortable, as if she was seeing him half-naked. Drawing himself up, he finished his whiskey.

"Time to hit the floors."

"Oh." She sat back, and he hoped he sensed her disappointment, that she would have wished to continue sitting with him. "Of course. I've plenty of work myself, and packing."

That stopped him. "Packing? I thought it was settled that you'd be staying here."

"Of course, and I am very excited. However, I have only been here a few days, and I need to go back to Boston, winterize my apartment, pack additional items to bring along for the next few months. You know, manage the other half of my life."

He frowned, wondering if that meant seeing a boyfriend, or if she wasn't that worried that he was hoping to see her more, that the weekend was full of opportunities for him to sit with her, talk with her, listen to her stories.

"That's fine. You know, there are plenty of shops that would have appropriate items here. You shouldn't need to pack much."

"I know, I know. Come on, you have work to do," she stood, smoothing out the suede of her dress, her hands pressing imaginary creases along her stomach and thighs. He watched, hungry to see her curves. He realized she was still chatting and he forced his eyes back up, past her soft breasts to her face.

"And besides, I need the necessities, the usual nonsensical things that only girls worry about."

"Like what?" he heard himself ask, and could have kicked himself at the uncomfortable look it brought her.

"Oh, you know. Toiletries, tampons, underwear."

He couldn't help but crack a chuckle at that, and her smile relaxed. He'd never met a woman who would actually say those words in front of him, and he was impressed at her bluntness.

"There's a Victoria's Secret in all my hotels, you know," he murmured as he stood as well. "Where are you staying?"

"The Encore."

"When will you be back?"

"Five days should do it."

"Five?!" he couldn't help but feel a little worried, not only about himself but his event. The gala needed to be stellar. "How can you guarantee that you'll be able to get the key pieces of the event lined up—."

"Oh Terry." She stopped him with the casual sound of his name. "That's what I'm going to do now, go work some more on this, and I'll be working from Boston too. I can make phone calls from any office."

He frowned, realizing he was being slightly unreasonable; of course she needed to get her affairs in order.

"What time is your flight?"

She gave him a quizzical glance as they began to exit the bar lounge. "I think six in the morning."

He nodded at his bodyguard to continue following them as he walked her toward the front of the casino to waiting taxis.

"You're very kind, but I walk, Terry," she said as they continued across the lush lobby and elegant floors.

He raised an eyebrow at her shoes. "Really?"

"Yes. It's not far at all. You Vegas people are so spoilt with your taxis and cars. Besides, it's evening. It's not hot anymore."

He paused. "Well, you're my employee now, and I'd prefer you not walk back alone. This will do it. Thanks, Henry."

One of the bellhops jumped to a waiting cab, and Terry saw her look at him with respect. He did know every bellboy's name; it was his job to know his staff.

"Very well. Thank you for your input on the event, Terry," she turned to him, and offered her hand. He shook it firmly, holding her eyes, wishing he could say more or touch her again before she left, but knowing that not only were all the staff's eyes on him, but the many security cameras were taping every moment.

"I look forward to the final designs, Grace."

And then he let her go, and watched her legs fold into the cab, and watched her lean forward to talk to the driver. As the gears shifted, she turned to look back out the window, and gave a brief wave and smile as the taxi sped off.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

That evening, after making additional phone calls and setting wheels in motion, Grace treated herself to a glass of wine from the mini bar.

Terry. She tucked her feet under her, and listened to the soft tinkle of jazz on the tv. He made her feel less lonely, and interesting. It was heady being near him, hearing him talk about himself, opening up, even slightly. She wondered if he was married, if he had ever married, and what she would exactly do if the situation wandered into the unprofessional sphere. She'd been there before, and while it was a rush, it never lasted.

She wished she could call him, or talk to him more. Their meetings seemed to be quick snippets of the day, mere minutes of time together. It was unlikely it would develop beyond this level. She was always very bad at flirting, and her husband always said that it was the lack of the coquette that had been so attractive to him.

Paul. She closed her eyes, thinking of him. So sweet and gentle and supportive. He was her rock. Though as things grew with SE&M, she had turned more and more to business, used it as a crutch, and then a way of life. It was always a distraction, one she loved. But no one could ever measure up to Paul, and what he was to her.

Grace sighed, and got up to change into her nightgown when there was a knock at the door.

Frowning, she went to crack it open, and then with a smile, opened it wider.

"For a Grace Bery?" The porter had a small box in his hands.

"Yes?"

He handed it over to her without ceremony, and produced a clipboard from under his arm, where she signed dutifully before slipping him a five and closing the door.

"Oh Terry, you don't need to buy me," she said softly, and opened the dark blue velvet lid.

Nestled inside was a silver bracelet, inset with tiny diamond chips. It was tasteful and elegant, something she could wear at night and during the day, and she pulled it out of the case with quiet excitement. Perhaps he could not be warm with her in person, but he was telling her something, at least.

Suddenly worry pricked at her mind. Was this allowed? She knew it wasn't - ethically she ought to return it with kind thanks. He was her boss, really, a client, a high rolling client, but a client none the less. She'd accepted gifts before, but they were from women vendors, jewelers who had no other medium, and never with the emotion attached to it. This could quickly become dangerous, but her mind was boggled with the thought of him, and the lust that curdled inside her belly was powerful.

Swallowing her thoughts, she slipped it onto her wrist where it was cold and slippery and slinky. The clasp closed easily. She looked back at the box, where the jeweler's card was nestled. Flipping over the heavy cream stock, she saw it was not so; it was Terry's calling card, with his name printed simply and very boldly in dark black engraving. It was plain, except for a phone number dashed off in broad ballpoint pen.

Smiling, knowing what she wanted to do, what he was expecting of her, she picked up her cell phone.

He answered on the second ring. "Terry."

"It's Grace," she said, hoping to convey her thrills by the tone of her voice. "Terry, it's simply beautiful. Thank you so very much. It was unexpected of you."

"It looked like it would match your earrings tonight." There was a forced nonchalance in his answer, and she had to hide the smile in her voice; he was pleased with himself, that was certain.

"It's extremely good taste, if I do say so." Somehow conversation was easier with him on the phone, as if he could be more free. "I am very overwhelmed."

"Good." Now there was a definite smile on the other end. "I had hoped it would have that effect. So, be sure to come straight back and report to me when you return to Vegas."

"I—alright. Of course."

"Good night, Grace." She heard the mutter of other voices on the other end, and realized he was being interrupted.

"Good night," she said, and hung up slowly, then paused before plugging his information into her cell. The bracelet sparkled in the low lamplight, and she left it on as she went to bed.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

He was waiting for her by four am, sitting in the car outside the Encore, glad for the darkly tinted windows. It was a stupid thing, really. He was certain she was quite able to take a taxi to the airport, and this was probably very forward of him, but Terry Benedict was used to getting things he wanted, and he wanted Grace. But now that he was sitting here, idling in his town car, his driver discretely sitting with the partition closed off from the front, he found himself feeling the fool. Would she see this as too much?

She stepped out at five after four, at a brisk walk in turquoise shoes and a smart white linen dress with a swinging coat. He forgot that Boston would be chilly in September.

"Ms Bery." His driver nearly leapt from the car in the effort to catch her. "Right this way."

He saw her eye the car warily. "No, thank you. I prefer the taxi." It was obvious she thought it was a scam, very usual in Vegas.

"Mr. Benedict was quite insistent." The driver expertly grabbed her small suitcase and garment bag from her arms, leaving her with the oversized tote around her shoulder.

"Oh."

Terry saw that she was wearing the bracelet, its new sparkles blinking in the early morning lights. Seeing her standing uncertainly yet, he finally braced himself and got out of the car as James was closing the trunk.

"Grace. Good morning."

He saw the smile on her face light up her eyes. Putting a hand to her purse, she ducked her head and slid in without another question. As their doors were shut, he looked at her with pleasure, at her arms and small waist, and realized that this back seat was as close as they had ever sat. He could almost feel her body heat, and could smell her light perfume.

"This was also very unexpected, Terry. Good morning." She looked like she would lean over to touch him, and with an automatic practice he looked away. There was a lull as the car began to move.

"Did you sleep well?" he strove to find a subject.

"Alright. Did you?"

"Yes," he lied. He'd been up all night, trying to figure out if it was worth meeting her this morning, that distance made the heart fonder, that she would miss him more if he let it be with the gesture of the bracelet. But in the end, he had to see her once more, had to find out what kind of conversation they'd have.

"I always find it interesting that many hotel beds have that dent right on one side closer to the nightstand, or that there's a very deep valley in the middle from…you know…" he watched her wriggle her eyebrows, and couldn't help but let out a tight chuckle. Four in the morning and the woman was talking about sex!

"My beds are changed out every few months."

"Good. I hate that feeling that you've got to constantly climb back over to the other side, and all night you're slowly drifting to that low point in the bed, then you've got to crawl back out again. It's exhausting!" she gave a shake of her head, and a light laugh.

"I admit, I've never really had that experience."

She glanced at him. "Then sometime you should try it. It's interesting – for a night." She seemed to hesitate, and watched the road signs speed by. They were not far from the airport, and there was little traffic this early.

"Really, Terry, the bracelet was—is—amazing. I'm not sure how I can offer you a gift of such magnitude back – I don't know what you'd like.

"I don't need for anything," he looked at her, his eyes drinking her in, knowing that her nearness was all he needed at this moment.

"Yes, well. I'll have to figure out something eventually." She raised her arm to inspect the links of diamonds again, and he looked at the taper of her wrist. Suddenly, quickly, she brought her hand down to touch his to squeeze it in an affectionate gesture of thanks. Instinctively, he started to pull away, and then remembered that they were in his car. No cameras. The fear melted away, and he grabbed at her fingers, suddenly aching to touch her everywhere, knowing they had a few minutes before they arrived at the gates.

"You do that." His eyes watched hers as he raised her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of her hand, her fingers, and then her palm and wrist, delicately moving aside his diamond gift to do so. She closed her eyes, her breath catching. When they opened and met his, he was thrilled to see her eyes dark with want and desire.

"You—don't stop—I mean." She left her hand where it was, where he had captured it in both of his and forced a calm sigh. "I mean, why now?"

Their joined fingers drooped as he cocked his head, uncertain to where this was going. The tone of her voice held a warning he didn't understand.

"Why this now? Because I've been wanting to touch you for days."

"But last night – you pulled away, my hand…you didn't want to touch my hand then." She was looking anxiously outside, whether to find her gate or will it to be further away. He followed her gaze and saw the Continental airlines logo approaching fast. Damn James for being such a smooth driver!

Pulling her hand to his chest, he felt himself yearn for her nearness, but he paused, wishing a kiss could be in a better setting than the back of a car.

"There's always someone watching in my casinos. Cameras, videos, everything. I don't want...my privacy...breached."

Her eyes softened around the corners as she smiled at him. "I see. I understand, Terry, really I do. Thank you for telling me."

Reaching over, she took her free hand and placed it on his cheek. Her palm was cool to his hot face, and she ran her fingers along his jaw, her thumb along the crease beside his mouth before running them lightly through his hair. He couldn't help but close his eyes, and he felt her move closer on the seat, just as the car came to a halt.

Her lips brushed along his chin before planting a kiss on the side of his face, close to his ear. He felt the warm press of her breasts on his arm, and his eyes flew open as she pulled away. The stirring of desire went coursing through him, and he was irritated with her brief peck.

"And that's how you thank a man for diamonds?" he tried to talk lightly, releasing hands as James came around to open her door.

"Wait, please," she said to the driver, who respectively closed the door again and waited outside.

Turning to him, her eyes were bright in the gloom, and he took her hand again, willing himself to stay separate, to not force it.

"Terry. Thank you for the ride. And—and, please…I can't kiss you now. Not yet. Don't think I don't want to. It's—I'm afraid I'll miss my flight if I do."

Relief ran through him. "You think so?"

She dipped her head and squeezed his fingers. "I know so. And the sooner I leave, the sooner I'll be back."

He nodded and relinquished her hands. "Be sure to come to the office when you're back. Immediately, understand?"

With a backwards nod at him, one full of apology, she got out of the car – he had a brief view of the outline of her back and buttocks before her dress cleared, and it did nothing to stave off the desire in his blood.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Grace's flight back was torn between fits of excitement and nerves. She kept reliving her kiss to Terry Benedict. He had smelled like cigars and aftershave, of expensive cologne. She had desperately wanted to really, heartily kiss him, but had held back. Why? He certainly would have reciprocated.

She admitted that part of her had wanted him to lean in, for him to seek her, and the other part was glad he had not, that he had not been pushy. Though the ride to the airport had been enough of an overture to show his interest, she still liked the way he made her feel protected.

Reflecting as she took the subway to her neighborhood, she thought about their age difference. He really was older than her - though probably not much. Though she doubted he had a serious thought about her, she couldn't help wondering how far he was willing to go. Would this wear off, would it be a fleeting thing? Well, she mustn't get her heart wrapped too much around the idea.

Letting herself in, she was washed with the quietness of her home.

She let herself into the apartment. Outside the window, the old trees of the neighborhood waved in the early September breezes, their bold colors a contrast to the cool grey of her walls, the soft creams of the pillows at the window seat.

It felt good to be home.

After dragging her laundry into the washer, and putting the rest on the hook for dry cleaning, she went to her iPhone and checked messages missed during flight. Nothing too worrisome, and she placed a call back with a few particular vendors before calling the office. Everyone should be nearly gone now, as it was close to five.

"Sophisticated Events and Management."

"Shannon! You're still there?" Grace sat easily at the stool next to her counters.

"Oh yah, there was a last minute change to a vendor visit schedule so I had to fire off a new PDF to the clients. What's up? Are you back?"

"Yes, I am. Care to wander over for some dinner?"

"Er…I'd love to, and to catch up, but…well, Jack's in town and I really wanted to see him before he heads back to upstate New York again for work—."

"Oh, go on, then, you know this can all wait until morning," Grace let her off lightly, and then after a quick chat about the next day's workload, they hung up.

Turning on the radiator to low and pulling out a chilled bottle of wine and some frozen chicken, she set about making dinner.

Later, over a second glass, she went to the computer and began working again.

It was usually like this. Her social life took a back burner to her professional, and while sometimes she recognized that she was missing out, work was a release, a controlled environment, something she could watch formulate results and see a happy ending.

Scrolling through her photographs for a new screen saver, she popped through ones of her and Paul. Pausing, she looked through them, full of indescribable emotions.

Shaking her head, she turned back to work, detailing schedules and outlines for the projects she'd be leaving behind with staff. She emailed her Vegas branch, discussing future details for work at the Bellagio and delegating visits and phone calls for them while she finished up in Boston over the next few days. It was hard to believe it was Monday.

The next morning dawned early for Grace, who was still adjusting to the time difference. She dragged herself up and put on the espresso before her yoga routine in front of the news.

Once in the office, she went straight to her pile of letters on her desk, efficiently slicing each one before shoving it in the proper place: garbage, garbage, invoice, payment, vendor event, garbage.

"Grace!" It was Shannon, her broad Irish face and curly dark hair popping around the corner. "I'll be in in a sec; gotta get to my email quick."

She nodded, and waited, went to get another cup of coffee at the small kitchenette and came back. Shannon met her in the doorway.

"So, my God, you have to tell me how you landed the Bellagio!"

Grace went back to her chair, shrugging, but unable to keep the smile from her face. "Easy, really. We kicked ass at the wedding."

"I know, but you must have impressed the managers to hire you!! I mean, that's huge! A hundred thou – geez." Shannon slid into the chair across the desk.

"Actually, it was the casino owner who offered it. We have a budget of six million, Shannon, can you believe it? It's the biggest gig yet!" Grace threw up her arms with excitement.

"Hey, hey, wait, wait, what's that?" Shannon was pointing to her wrist. Grace brought her hands down and looked at Terry's bracelet.

"Oh, a bracelet. Diamond chips, really, but it looks glamorous, doesn't it? A little present for the event." She held it out for inspection, hoping her casual explanation would go over. She wasn't quite ready to talk about him.

"Grace, you are the only person I know who knows how to properly reward herself." Shannon took it at face value. "Where did you buy it?"

"Oh, one of the shops at the Bellagio, of course."

Her assistant nodded, then pulled the stack of folders from her lap. "Ok, which bride do you want to go over first?"


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

On Thursday, Terry went to the ninth floor of the Bellagio to inspect the suite himself. Grace would be arriving the next night, and he wanted everything ready for her to move in; he planned to be officious and hospitable.

It was plush and spacious, and he stood in the door, calculating what would be best to show his relief at her return - if only to work on his event. Not more jewelry, of that he was sure. Flowers, perhaps, waiting for her. Champagne was too obvious, and the flowers could not be roses. She'd see that as cliché, and she'd be right. He had bought Tess roses, and the memories associated with his past lover were not good ones.

He'd easily flowed back into his daily routine without Grace. That was not hard, as Mary prepared his schedules, and he made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be kept very busy this week. She gave him a half smile that he didn't understand and had proceeded to keep him running with appointments for days.

It'd served a good purpose, for he had few moments to think about her, and ponder on whether he missed her. His lust for her had cooled a little, but instead he found himself thinking about their talks, her laugh, her interest in his life. He wanted, against his better judgment, to tell her about himself, his favorite foods, his aspirations for other casinos. And he wanted to hear about her, if she took baths or showers, or if she was interested in sushi.

Also, he wanted to talk to her about her husband.

Half of the background check had come in already, just that afternoon. While the FBI warned that it was far from finished, he was eager to get his hands on any information about her.

Paul Bery, executive vice president of some law firm out east, had married Grace ten years ago, and they resided in Quincy. He'd googled too, just to see if their names appeared in the white pages, which they did. Growling under his breath, he put a finger to his forehead as he looked around the room.

Forget flowers. She wasn't getting any more from him. Regardless of his attraction for her, and the obviousness of her desire for him, he wasn't about to embark on some fruitless adventure with her until there were answers. Why did she accept his gift, wear his diamonds? And why not wear a ring? He would have backed off immediately, without thought to his cravings.

He nodded at the maid. It was satisfactory. Any personal touches that he'd considered were gone from his mind as he made his way back to the office.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The next morning, he was up early, determined to lead a very normal day. He checked his voicemails, went to the gym, met with Master Yen, and headed to his office. Mary handed him the list of appointments, and he checked them off one by one. The walk through his casino started a bit later than usual, and he finished talking with one of his floor managers at ten thirty. The casino was buzzing, as was usual on a Friday.

"Sir," Charles, the manager, nudged him verbally.

"What?" Terry looked at him, irritated. When the man jutted out his chin, he followed the gaze, and saw Grace walking toward them, her face calm and her body moving fluidly.

How could she look so composed, so at ease, when she was double dealing so easily? Well, she had forgotten that he was Terry Benedict. He knew how to make men hurt, how to manage silent deals, and take care of problems without a trace.

She was wearing a cream dress, long and with a trail of pale pink appliqués down the shoulder. Her shoes were nude, and her legs looked longer and leaner. He looked closer. Had she lost weight? Perhaps the worry of running with two men was taking its toll on her.

He cleared his throat and Charles left him immediately, passing Grace and nodding indifferently to her as she moved past with a smile.

"Hello, Terry."

He couldn't help but give her a small, sardonic smile, accompanied by a stiff nod. She checked at that, and he watched the smile drain. Oh yes. She'd been caught. Perhaps she knew it.

Her wrist was clasped with his bracelet, and he turned away from the sight of it. He should have been more responsible, should have gotten the background check before he had gotten involved.

"You said to go to your office when I returned. Mary was gone and you were not there, though I think I made a fool of myself knocking." She gave him a sheepish smile which he did not return.

"I've been working," he winced at his own cold voice, but he couldn't help the anger that seethed through him. "But we should go there now. Business calls."

Frowning now, she followed him down and through the casino; he was aware of the space she gave him, and while he was disappointed that space now existed between them, he was still furious and glad she was reacting appropriately. How dare she think she could play Terry Benedict!

Once in the office, he could barely control himself when he whirled around, heedless of his bark.

"Well! It seems we have a little bit of paperwork, Mrs. Bery."

Her eyes widened, and she moved away from him as he paced, then walked to the desk. Picking up the folder, he almost flung it her way.

"Did you think you could fool me for long? Did you enjoy the little game you had me playing, the gift?"

Her face was blank, pale, and she stood there with his folder half forgotten, hanging limply by her fingers.

"What game? I don't play games, Ter—Mr. Benedict," she faltered, unnerved by the fire in his eyes. He gestured for her to open the documents, fuming, waiting for his victory to be complete.

She stared, then took up the paperwork, her eyes widening before she glanced up at him, her voice tight. "A background check. How very…thorough…Mr. Benedict."

He stood taller. Did she think he was stupid? "The last page, Mrs. Bery, was of particular interest to me."

Spinning through, her eyes paused, then she gave a little half laugh and tossed the whole passel on his desk dismissively. Turning away from him, he saw her put a hand to her eyes. He forced himself to remain standing, to stay hard. He'd seen women cry.

"What do you think you were doing, Mrs. Bery? I'm no fool. I'm half inclined to ask for my diamonds back."

She straightened her shoulders and turned back, her eyes slightly swollen, but no tears had run her make-up.

"You've certainly proven that you will go great lengths to find out about me. You could have just asked."

"Oh, and you'd have been very truthful." He smacked his hands on the folder. His fury remained high; was she going to offer some excuse, some sort of irritating plead? He'd throw her out, and fire her. Fifty grand had been wasted other ways.

"I would have. Your research is faulty, half finished," she threw up her hands. "Paul's been dead for five years; I'm surprised your FBI didn't find the death certificate yet. They will. Or if not, I'll supply it, and anything else you need to feel that I'm—I'm worthy enough of your time."

He felt himself sit, as though a weight had been pummeling him and had just let off. A widow. A wide range of thoughts hit him again at once. So young! So successful! But…the edge of fear had already crept in. How did he die? Did he die suddenly, to her interest? Life insurance money? His eyes still trained on her warily. Would women always be so difficult to trust?

She sighed, and pulled off the bracelet, dropping it limply on the desk. "It's best if we stop here. You're my client. I'm your professional coordinator."

As she turned toward the door, he launched himself out of the chair and across the office floor.

"Grace!"

At her name, she paused, and looked at him, the muscles in her throat constricting so tightly he could see the strain on her neck and shoulders.

"The report isn't finished. I didn't know."

She shook her head forcefully. "You should have waited. You could have asked, could trust me a little. I've done nothing to deserve otherwise. I'd always be honest with you, Mr. Benedict. That's my job."

She pulled the door open with a yank, and walked out quickly, so that he'd look an idiot if he tried to chase her.

Watching her retreat, he found himself dragged down with disgust. Stupid, stupid, he really was stupid to think so harshly of her. She was right. Now when she wiped her hand viciously across her face as she walked down the hall, he felt pain thud below his chest. He'd give her a few hours, then go up to her room and apologize.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

It was one am when her iPhone rang. Grace glanced at it, and took a deep breath. It was professionally required of her to answer it, and before it hit the last ring, she picked it up.

"Grace," his voice sounded angry yet. "Where the hell are you?"

"At my hotel."

"Damn it, no you're not. You've got a suite here, why aren't you in it?"

She felt a sad smile flit at the corners of her mouth. So he'd gone after her after all, had tried to find her.

"It's probably best that I…live…separately from work, Mr. Benedict, and—."

"Terry."

She sighed. "I won't do this. The back and forth, the mistrust so early. You're my client, Mr. Benedict. Can I help you with anything?"

There was a short silence; she wondered if he was going to hang up on her.

"Yes, you damn well can." She was surprised to hear him swear so viciously. "Get your ass back to the Bellagio where you belong. Now."

Then came the audible click as he hung up.

She sighed, and looked at her suits already hung up at the Venetian. This was ridiculous. Picking up her suitcase, she wondered if she could get out of this via contract, and went to look at it.

Cursing silently under her breath at her own thoroughness, she saw her own writing; Client will provide room and board at the Bellagio for duration of planning and coordination. Daily expenses will not exceed...etcetera... She was certain Terry would withhold reimbursement for her room at the Venetian property, and would use the expense of hotels to get her back within his favorite realm.

Shaking her head, she started to repack. He had been so cold and angry, and with no reason. She wished he had asked instead of accused, had waited for a full background check before approaching her. It had been like a douse of cold water to see Paul's handwriting on the old marriage license, the memories of their wedding day had come pouring back. Her anger grew at Terry. Damn him for dragging up old ghosts, for attacking her with such cruelty. If he had simply been Mr. Benedict, she could have fought back, and would have, too. But he had become Terry during her absence, and her heart had grown with excitement at seeing him again. Now she also felt wary of him, of his fury and his temper.

A man had never, ever, yelled at her.

Sighing, she finished packing up her office equipment. She'd look a fool checking out mere hours after checking in, but there was nothing to do about it, and she knew he knew it too.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

They called him on his cell when she walked in and the first cameras picked her up at registration. He tried to forget the worry that had surged through him when he'd discovered that she had left without checking in, without a hint to her whereabouts. He'd had to keep himself from racing to the airport. Now that she was back, safe under his watch, he gave himself exactly one hour before making his way back up to her floor, cursing himself the whole time.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He knocked with his knuckles, and she made him wait only a few painful seconds before opening the door.

"Yes, Mr. Benedict?" Her voice was guarded, her gaze direct and impersonal.

"Don't, Grace," he wanted to reach for her, wanted to get out of the blasted hallway where cameras were placed to see every door. "May I come in?" He hated having to ask.

She hesitated, then opened the door up wider. "Of course."

He walked in slowly, avoiding her face, waiting without turning as she closed the door behind him. She stayed where she was, so he took the liberty of strolling through the living area, noticing she had already hung up her suits. He nodded with approval. She at least understood that he would have his way here.

"Can I help you, Mr. Benedict?"

He ground his teeth at her professional voice, so different from the gaily open one that he had always heard from her.

She'd followed him at a distance, her hands hanging uselessly at her sides, her left wrist bare. He'd considered bringing back the bracelet, but had decided it was poor taste. Too early for an offering, and too many memories already associated with those diamonds.

Now he could see that she had been crying; the soft light hit her face perfectly so that he could see the rivulets the salt had made through her make-up.

"Grace," In two strides he was in front of her, desperate to hold her, but afraid to touch her. He wanted everything back to where it was, before the old marriage license had turned up on his desk.

Before he had shouted at her.

"Yes, Mr. Benedict?" She lifted her face to match his, her gaze expressionless. Helplessly, he lifted empty hands.

"It's Terry. It will always be Terry, don't forget it."

She shook her head. "No. I was foolish to drop the professionalism once. It won't happen again."

Grabbing her upper arms in his hands, he felt the coolness of her flesh and his desire for her pulled at his body once again, as if it had always been there.

"Don't make me beg, Grace."

"Just a few hours ago I was Ms Bery again. I've been through the wringer, Mr. Benedict, and I was stupid to get caught up in the…romanticism. I'm not interested in the emotional, the up and down—." She bit her lip and broke his gaze.

"Let me go." She wrung herself from his grip and walked away. "Please, if you've got nothing professional to say, I believe this meeting is at an end."

He wasn't about to let it end like this. He'd got many ideas on how they'd spend their evenings working together, even playing together, going to shows and taking in boxing matches. Terry Benedict did not just give up.

Walking up to her, he placed a hand on her shoulder, lightly.

"I should have spoken to you first, Grace." She flinched, then stilled at his touch. "I was so angry about it, that you were married, that I just…" He trailed off, never one to apologize, hoping she would understand that it was as close as he could get.

When he didn't get an answer, he dropped his hand, looking around the well stocked kitchenette for the Shiraz he knew would be in the bar. Anything to keep his hands busy.

"Terry."

He paused, his hand on the bottle.

She turned around, her eyes unnaturally blue with unshed tears, and her cheeks were pink with the effort to keep them in.

"I—it hurt," she lifted her hands in a flutter, and with that he had released the wine opener and was pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly, one hand tucked around her waist, the other wrapped just above, pressing her close and burying his face in her neck. She smelled like fresh blossoms and that same watery scent she always wore. Her skin was silk, her hair, pulled back into a twist, tickled his cheek. It was a relief to touch her, feel her.

Her hands were at his chest, his face, his hair, and he felt her take in a deep breath and let it out with a sizable shudder before she pulled back ever so slightly. He tightened his grip, unwilling to let her go for a moment yet, enjoying the feeling of her thighs pressed against him, of her stomach curved with his own.

Their faces were close, but he didn't let himself kiss her yet. He wanted her first kiss to be a happy occasion, not one that was meant to make up their argument.

"Please, don't ever yell at me again."

He shook his head, giving her a squeeze. Hopefully, he could keep such a promise, and gave her a slow smile.

"Where did you run to get away from me?"

She settled comfortably in his arms. "The Venetian."

"Right next door?" he was sarcastic, but his voice came out gently.

"It would have still been close to work."

"Not close enough." He bent to kiss her hair, then rested his check on the softness of it. It smelled like incense. There was a strange familiarity in their nearness. "Is this better?"

She gave a little laugh. "Of course it is, for many reasons." Her arms tightened around his neck. "I didn't have a suite there, just a room. I'm not picky."

He marveled that he could hold her without needing to ravish her; he could stand here in the little kitchen forever, and yet he felt his stomach growl. Grace looked up at him.

"I think someone's hungry."

Reluctantly pulling away, he gave her a sheepish grin. "Aren't you?"

Finally smiling fully, she laughed again. "Oh yes. I've moved twice today, plus all the emotion that goes with it. I should say I'm hungry!"


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

They ate at one of the fancy restaurants on the main level. She wanted to offer room service, but had thought it would look bad, as if she would be a spoiled little girl who wanted to hide in her room, and put it on his bill.

Instead, she had begged for a moment and went to press on some concealer and powder, leaving the door open to the lush bathroom. He'd come to stand there and watch her with unconcealed interest, a small, satisfied smile on his face, at which she caught him sneaking a look at her rear end.

Now, sitting across from him, their knees touching intimately under the tablecloth, she sampled the dessert.

"It's very good. Try some?"

He shook his head. "I'm not much for liking sweets."

"It's not sweet, Terry." She watched him smile with relief again as she said his name. "What have you got against sweet things anyway? It's dark cacao. More bitter than sweet."

Reluctantly, he picked up his clean spoon and sampled a bit of the mousse. She could have giggled if the entire evening hadn't been so stressed. To anyone watching, he played the role of hen-pecked boyfriend very well, considering tonight was really their first dinner date. He raised his eyebrows at the taste.

"Well?"

Ruefully, he dipped his spoon back in for a larger bite. "I'll have to congratulate my chefs on finding something I can enjoy," he admitted gruffly.

She watched him take the next bite, and felt a surge of odd happiness again. They'd had their first quarrel – and he had at least been persistent. Thinking back to their embrace, she had felt so comforted in his arms, their bodies fitting together so well, just like…well, just like it had been with Paul, though the two men were hardly comparable.

"So, is the traffic picking up in the casino?" she asked casually, dipping her spoon in behind him.

"It is," he said, glancing at her with surprise. "How would you know?"

"Conference time starts now," she shrugged. "I myself came to one ten years ago about the event industry. It was," she gave a laugh, remembering. "quite awful."

"I hope it wasn't in one of my hotels?" he narrowed his eyes.

"No, no, one of the older ones. It wasn't the location either, it was the organizers. They were obviously not event people. It was very funny, really." She leaned back and gave a brief laugh.

"Well, then, yes, the floor has been doing well. Also I've brought in the boxing tournament again this next week, and that will keep the people pouring in."

"Boxing night?"

"Yes," he seemed to glower at the memory of the last one, and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Tell me what happens. I've got brothers and we all used to wrestle."

He settled in his chair and handled his whiskey, thinking about the event. "Well, it's very manly, a room of testosterone. It's boxing at its prime, a ring, and lots of shouting and betting." She watched his hands gesture to include the size of the room, to talk about how he rounded up the particular fighters, and how he paid attention to all the details, working with the lighting staff to make the room feel like it would have in the 50's. She was impressed and told him so, watching his rare and slow, genuine smile light his face.

"Oh Terry, it sounds like a blast," she added, when he'd finished and picked up his whiskey. He turned to her with a self-satisfied smile.

"Yes. It is. I hope you'll be there."

"I will be," she nodded. "Just tell me where I can pick up a ticket."

He waved that aside, a small frown creasing his forehead. "Don't."

She frowned, wondering what she said wrong. "What?"

"Don't do that, don't assume that you have to manage it yourself. I'm taking care of—of it. You'll be with me."

She detected a note of pride in his voice, and saw him pull out a cigar. So he thought he would take care everything? She shoved down the surge of panic in her stomach. Would he try to control her? It'd been a long time since she had to answer to a man, and even when Paul was around, he had been accommodating, helpful, a teammate. Suddenly she found herself wrapped with a man she couldn't say she knew at all, had landed there without even a choice.

"Is that alright?"

She jerked back to reality. "What?"

"I said, is that alright, that you'll be with me."

It wasn't truly a question, but as he said it with formality, she saw his lips tremble ever so slightly as he brought the cigar to his lips. Was he nervous? Worried she'd refuse him? The idea brought her relief, and the clench of her stomach lessened. If she really did have a little sway over him, then it was not something to be so afraid of.

She started to reach out to him, to agree, but his eyes flicked up a warning to the corner of the room. She didn't have to look behind her to know he was thinking about the security cameras.

Sighing, she brought her hand back, but looked into his face. "I'd really love it."

He closed his eyes as he exhaled, and then without warning handed her the stogie. She breathed in the spice and smiled. A Romeo y Julieta. Bringing it to her lips, she cocked her head at him, and inhaled with pleasure as he sat watching her breathe through her nose and nodded appreciatively before giving it back.

"Then it's settled." They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, occasionally passing the cigar between them, sipping their drinks. She glanced over at him a few times, catching him stealing glances at her, of gazing at her with a half smile before looking back out over the casino.

She longed to take him back up to her room, to hold him again, and feel his body close to hers. He was like a new drug; powerful, potent and easily accessible. Worried about where things would lead, she decided against letting him in, and with that decision, finished her scotch with relish.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

They walked along the hallway tightly; he followed her just so. Tomorrow the FBI promised the rest of the background report, and he was anxious to learn the rest about her. She had requested he ask her, but old habits died hard. He couldn't completely trust her. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

At her door, she opened it, and stood uncertainly.

"Thank you again for dinner, Terry."

He gave a little shrug, standing apart from her, aware of the cameras at his side and back. "It was a pleasure. I'm tired of eating alone."

She smiled at him, and he wanted to reach for her, to hold her and kiss her good night, but he would not ask to enter again tonight, and she seemed determined to keep him at the threshold, though he did not know why. His lust for her screamed through his body, though he held it in disciplined check.

"Well, then, good-night Terry." She began to close the door.

"Good night, Grace."

He spun on his heel, and heard the click of the door close behind him before it swung wide again.

"Terry." The call was soft, but he didn't want to appear eager, so he stopped and half turned. She had come into the hall, her heels off; she looked tiny and less imposing. "What time is our meeting tomorrow?"

He thought to his schedule, but for the life of him couldn't remember it. Saturday; a busy day for the casino, but not so for him.

"I'll call you." It was all he could promise, and he watched her nod in submission and go back into her suite.

He went straight back to his office and poured another whiskey and lit another cigar.

He really wanted that report. He hoped she didn't have any Danny Oceans lurking around, waiting to stage a heist to steal him of his money and his girl. He caught himself. Yes, he did consider Grace to be his girl, and he was damned if he would let another take her away. Terry Benedict had never married for three reasons which always got in the way; time, money or another man. And he had yet to discover which one would be the threat this time.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Though he'd wanted to, he had refrained from asking Grace about her husband's death, about being a young widow. It was no wonder he couldn't have guessed her age. He figured death made someone seem timeless, older.

The next morning dawned extra bright; the Vegas sky was bold and blue. His insiders at the FBI were due at seven, right as he was due in the office. Eager to finish the business, he stood by the glass windows until Mary announced them.

"Damn it, Bobby, where's the rest of the report?" he didn't even have to turn to feel the pompousness of the man behind him. Spinning, he pinned the man with a flinty glare. "You could have saved me a lot of hassle."

"Hey, a favor is a favor, Terry," the FBI insider shrugged nonchalantly. "It's all there now, six weeks earlier than had you went the usual channels."

Sighing, Terry went to his desk and unlocked a top drawer, pulling out an envelope stuffed with bills. Tossing it across the smooth surface, he nodded briefly to the man cramming it into his suit jacket.

"I appreciate your discretion."

With a return nod, the man stepped out, leaving Terry to grab the additional paperwork, and spend the next half hour pouring over the copies laid out before him.

There were paid hospital bills of thousands, dating over a span of eight months. A tumor, surgeries. Shit. It was even worse than he'd thought; he was more of an asshole than she even knew. He had thought the worst of her.

No life insurance to collect; there were bank statements leading back to a personal blueblood inheritance of hers that was barely touched. A full money market account that was stuffed full of cash; bank statements that were attached called it "Kid College Funds." Nothing had ever been withdrawn. Towards the back was a single hospital bill that belonged to Grace; a D & C. Passing his hands over his eyes, he finally saw the death certificate. Paul had been gone for years, and yesterday he had dug at an old wound.

Now jewelry seemed like a good idea, but he knew it was still too early.

Sighing, he placed the papers with the first folder and closed the file cabinet. He had a lot to learn about Grace, a lot to ask.

"Mary?" he had his secretary in the room instantly through the intercom.

"Yes sir?"

"What's my schedule today?"

"Well, there's a Mr. Ocean to see you, he's got his associates with him."

And with that, everything came back.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Grace was busy on Saturday, unpacking and going out to buy a printer, paper, and other basic and cheap office supplies to outfit her suite.

It hit the evening, and Vegas lights came out slowly. It had been a beautiful, perfect day. Pulling her iPhone toward her, she checked it again, paranoid that she had missed his call. Well, it was evening and it was Saturday; a day and night off regardless.

Going to the closet, she pulled out a raw silk cream dress and soft peachy sweater. Slipping on matching heels that had a bit of a sparkle on the heel, she added a swipe of powder to her eyelids before heading out for a drink, and perhaps dinner. She wouldn't sit back and wait for Terry, or assume he'd have time for her every night.

She walked slowly along the terraces, enjoying the sights and smells. The crush of people had lessened; many were eating or getting ready for a night at the clubs. Smiling to herself, she walked across the sidewalk until she was leaning against the railing, looking over the water. The evening light shows would start soon; she needed to get out of the way before the tourists arrived.

Thinking back to the evening when she and Terry had looked out over the water together, she marveled at how fast things had progressed. Wondering if he had found additional paperwork hidden in FBI archives, she shook her head, hugging the light sweater around her shoulders.

No trust. It was...a bit insulting.

Paris was across the street, and she waited patiently for the traffic lights before moving with the small crowd to the other side. Glancing up at the tall structure, she remembered her visits to France with Paul. It had been wildly romantic, and they had been so young. Shaking her head, she wondered if all four months in Vegas were going to make her feel this alone and friendless. She'd have to join a group, or a book club, something to find people. She doubted there would be much for her at a church in these parts. Did churches of the real sort even exist in Vegas?

Hesitating at the threshold of the casino, she checked her phone again. It was truly night now, and she wondered at what kind of service she'd have inside. Well, nothing was to be done about it. She stepped in, familiar with the rush of cool air and smells of smoke and old money.

Walking around, she found herself thirsty, and stepped in a small bar for a quick sampler of scotch. She wasn't much hungry, and wondered at her loss of appetite. Perhaps she was getting used to the late dinners with Terry already. Sighing, she wandered along the shops, pausing in front of the display of Chanel heels. Shaking her head, she knew it was pointless to go in; she was in no mood to buy anything.

Turning around, she walked back out of the casino. Across the street, the Bellagio light show had begun. The music was classic, a very lively John Phillips Sousa. She leaned against the cool marble, and when it finished with a delightful arch of shooting water tapers, she stayed as the crowd slowly walked away.

"Excuse?" It was a tiny Japanese woman. "You take photo?" She gestured with a high tech Polaroid to herself and a huddled group of tourists. Nodding, Grace took it from her and stood back, arching her back to accommodate their bodies and the great arch of the hotel behind them.

Taking two, just to be safe, she handed back the camera with a smile and nod to the little woman, and went back to her post, hearing the chatter of Japanese rise and fall behind her, then drifting away. She should ask Terry some words in the language for situations like this.

Sighing, feeling the chill of the marble seep through her sweater, she walked slowly back to the lobby. Pausing in the esplanade, she looked over the displays of men's wallets and ties. There was nothing unique here that she could offer him, nothing to show her appreciation for his support of her business at the Bellagio, for the affection she held for him.

Feeling unsettled, forgotten, she went back to her room, unlocking the door and sliding the soft cashmere from her shoulders as she did so, and pulling the pins out of the loose chignon at the nape of her neck. She walked slowly to the bathroom, setting the pins along her other toiletries and looked up at her reflection.

The slightest movement in the mirror caught her eye, and she turned swiftly, unnerved. Was it her imagination? Edging cautiously, quietly, along the vanity, she saw a sleeve, an arm, the swarthy fingers clutching a glass of dark liquid which was raised slowly to lips unseen.

Closing her eyes against the ebbing fright, she walked slowly out of the bathroom. He was sitting in one of the chairs overlooking the city, a bottle of old whiskey at his elbow. She kicked off her heels wordlessly, and padded over to him. Thankful for the lack of security cameras in her room, she slid a hand over his shoulder and he grabbed her fingers with his free hand, clutching them tightly.

"Terry? Is everything alright?" She was almost glad of the intimacy, that he felt comfortable letting himself into her rooms; in an instant, he had removed a barrier between them and the odd loneliness she'd felt all night disappeared. Still holding his hand, she went to crouch by his side, noticing that for once he did not sit straight at attention, but slumped, his legs splayed out before him.

"What's wrong?"

He was still silent, contemplating, then gave a rueful, raspy chuckle. "You know, strangely, Grace, this was the first place I thought to go."

She rubbed his fingers with both her hands. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you. It was a lovely night for a walk. I should have called you to join me."

He waved his hand, the drink swirling in the crystal tumbler. "I don't go on walks." As if tuned to her apprehension, he glanced at her. "Don't worry, I wasn't waiting long."

They were quiet again, and she traced the lines on his palm slowly, not knowing the right words to say. Finally discomfort won, and without letting go of his hand, she clambered into the chair next to his, and gazed out over the lights with him. Silently, he handed over the glass, and she sipped it, letting the unfamiliar burn of whiskey settle down her throat.

"Grace…" he sighed, and she set down the drink and turned to him, waiting and expectant. "It was a bad day."

"Can you tell about it?"

He shrugged, struggling with the words. She got up, slowly letting go of his hand, and he looked up at her. From this angle, he looked almost boyish, and she bent to kiss his forehead. "I'll get you something to eat, that might help."

Before she could move off to the kitchen, he had grabbed her wrist. "Come here." He pulled her down onto his lap, curving his arm around her knees and laying her frame so that she rested on his chest, her head went instinctively to nestle in the crook of his neck. Under her, she felt him sigh – with relief? Contentment? And then just for just a moment, Grace stopped asking questions and lay peacefully in his arms. This was a place of comfort.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21 [while many lines are taken directly from the movie, i have no rights to it, making no profits, etc :)]

Terry felt himself relax under the weight of her body. The day had been interesting, not necessarily bad, but it had brought back so many feelings of ill will.

Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan had strolled into his office, hands in pockets, expensive linens and loafers, and he had felt himself swell with the anger once again associated with Danny. He'd taken Tess, had let him spend three years chasing the boys club, and while he had gotten his money back, plus interest…he still had lost the girl.

As he had gazed at them levelly, he was surprised to find his irritation at the two had not lessened, regardless of Grace in his life. Terry Benedict did not take to being cheated well.

"What is it?"

"We've got a plan."

"A plan to bring down Willy Bank."

The two had told their story in the usual way, annoyingly finishing the other's sentences.

Terry had leaned back, lighting a cigar, measuring the men before him.

"And what do you need me for?"

"Money."

"Lots of money."

"Thirty-six million."

He had been disinclined to help them, though bringing Willy Bank to his knees was a juicy thought. But he could not let them off the hook so easily, and needed collateral, so he had leaned back in his chair, twirling his cane.

"Number one: If any of you try to screw with me, you're dead. And I'll be looking into the whole operation. Number two: If I lend you this money, I'm your senior partner. Last money in, first money out. And you will double my investment."

Danny hadn't flinched. "Double."

"Is that a yes?" He didn't bother to look at him, and stared at Rusty.

"Double," Rusty confirmed.

"That monstrosity that Bank calls a hotel casts a shadow over my pool. Break him. Break him in half. The man has no taste. Yet every time he opens a hotel, he wins a Royal Review Board Five Diamond Award. Every time he wins, he celebrates by—."

"We know, by buying one for his wife," Danny interrupted.

"You mean five." Linus Caldwell chimed in.

"One is five," Rusty corrected him.

Terry glared at them all, irritated already with their fast talk. "Number three, I want you to steal the diamonds."

"It can't be done."

"We don't have the manpower," Linus explained.

"Or the time." Danny.

"Or a way in." Rusty's excuse.

Danny shrugged. "We get caught, we go away for life. We're not going to risk that just so you can get his diamonds."

For a brief moment, Terry wondered what Grace would say if he presented her with such brilliant stones. He waved his hand.

"Oh, I don't want them. I just want him to lose what matters most to him. Do what you want with them. But either you steal the diamonds, or you get somebody else to finance your drill."

Simply put, he had little else to do to convince them of his seriousness. He could not be seen as a soft, generous casino owner, and whether he really meant to make good on such a promise remained to be seen. If they failed to pay him back, they would be in body bags, regardless of the widow that made Tess. Tess.

He had missed her, had missed his money, too, but she had been the ultimate prize. Everything on boxing night had been wrong from the start, and to this day he kicked himself for his answer to Danny Ocean, right next to the security cameras. He still didn't know which feed had captured his moment of shame, but watching Tess leave him, to go back to Danny…he had spent weeks getting over his anger. She had been one of the longest lovers he'd ever had – they'd been together for a year, maybe more. Perhaps because she understood his schedule, was willing to bend to it. Either way, he was still paranoid about what could happen between and man and a woman, so easily and fast.

Squeezing Grace tightly to him, he rested his cheek on her forehead. Her hand was making small circles on his chest, and lightly touching his face. Their silences were full and complete – he had to marvel at how there were no uncomfortable spaces in their conversations.

He felt her fingers move up along his shirt collar, twisting the silk that he always kept at his neck. Slowly, she began to pull at it, running her finger along the inside of his neck, lengthening the band until the cravat fell into her hands.

"There. You need to loosen up a little after a hard day," her voice was soft, slightly teasing, but there was little sexual about the movement. He realized she was trying to help, to soothe and comfort. Surprisingly, it was working.

"Grace," he picked up her hand, kissing the palm before holding it to his hot face. "I find I'm very hungry."

She smiled, and pulled out of his lap slowly, and he looked up at her face to see reluctance there. A small grin played at his lips; so she wanted to stay with him, eh? He stood and watched her slip back into her heels, reach for a soft peach cardigan that made her hair more gold than red.

"Wait."

She paused, watching him carefully. He realized he had been uncharacteristically unguarded with her; now she was skittery with him. Cocking his head to the side, he gestured to the thick black binder on the desk.

"Room service?"

Her laughter was refreshing, he felt relieved and relaxed. Cool air on his neck hit him as he moved to the kitchenette to find the scotch he'd personally guaranteed in the cabinets. It was a long time since he'd actually walked around without one of those damned cravats.

She popped back out of the shoes, and went to fetch his whiskey, refilling it before moving to join him.

"You know, this is a fully stocked kitchen," she mused.

"I do know." He looked her straight in the eye, hoping she comprehended that he had personally overseen the additions to her suite, that he had tried to take care of her. With her blush, he knew she understood.

"Well," she wasn't finished. "Sometime…maybe after boxing night, when you have more time…I'd like to…cook something for you?" Her request came out like a question, and he handed her the scotch with a half smile.

"That would be very nice, Grace."

She walked over to the binder, scotch in hand, and opened it musingly. Looking over her shoulder at him, she caught him gazing longingly at her bare legs.

"Terry?"

"Yes?" Trying to cover his obvious stare, he went to stand next to her. Without shoes, she was much shorter; he could have laughed at the height difference, it was so dramatic, but he refrained, thinking her sensitive to her size. Perhaps that's why she only ever wore heels.

"What are you hungry for? I'll be honest, French sounds perfect for me."

"French?" He raised his eyebrows. "A little rich, don't you think?"

"I don't need much," she confessed. "I haven't been hungry."

Worry immediately filled him, before he chastised himself on being such an idiot. Forcing himself to talk lightly, he asked, "Not feeling well?"

She shrugged with one shoulder. "Actually, no, I'm feeling very fine. Just thinking about a lot of things these days."

"Like what?" He watched her over his glass, wondering what worried her, wondering if she was scared of him. He wouldn't blame her; he'd shouted at her, the one person to whom he should have never raised his voice.

"Well…" Finally she sighed. "I hope you got the rest of the papers, or whatever else comes with a background check…about me."

He nodded, now fully wary.

"I—well, now you know about Paul, about his cancer. It was a tough year, and I'm trying not to relive it, trying to think of the happy things. But…in doing so, I find myself thinking more of you. It's a very strange feeling, to realize that old memories are being replaced with powerful new ones. But really…tonight you're worried. Tell me what's wrong, if you like."

Happiness flooded through him, and he set down his whiskey. Behind her, the lights of Vegas twinkled benignly. It was relief that coursed through him. No competition, no other man stood in his way; Grace was his. Reaching out, he relieved her of the scotch before gathering her into his arms gently. She smelled of rainwater and fresh apples. Smoothing back her hair, his eyes met hers briefly before he leaned down for the kiss.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

He tasted like whiskey and spice; his lips firm and his skin warm. She was aware of so many things at once. His arms about her waist, pulling her tightly to him, and her breasts were pressed firmly against his chest. She felt the brass buttons of his vest against her belly, and the strain of her toes as she tiptoed up to meet him halfway. Under her fingers, his hair was surprisingly soft, long, and she caught the whiff of the cigar on his collar. His tongue flicked at her lips, deepening the kiss, and she let him – oh heavens – she let him kiss her softly, then harder, and she kissed him right back.

Joy curdled in her stomach, she felt lightheaded and airy; pleasure coursed through her as he broke her mouth but continued to trail his lips along her jawbone and neck. Her head fell back, eyes closing automatically against the thrills his touch brought. Bringing her hands up, stroking his face, running her nails through his scalp, she felt him shudder slightly. Jolting back, remembering his rough day, that he needed pleasure too, she shifted slightly so she was able to kiss his ear, his neck, amazed at the manly smell of him and his smooth skin; there was the slightest stubble of growth under his chin.

He captured her lips again quickly after this, his breath coming fast, his hands were rubbing her back now, making slow circles, then squeezing the tiny part of her waist, as if he was trying to span it. She felt faint, surprised, delighted.

Terry Benedict was a very good kisser.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

That evening had finished with a small meal at the small table between their seats overlooking Vegas. He'd been afraid to touch her afterwards, afraid that he wouldn't be able to stop, or hold himself back. As a disciplined man, he was determined to stay in control of himself and the situation.

She'd updated him on the gala, asked questions about logistics and preferences, and he had actually gotten her opinion on a few remaining thoughts for the upcoming boxing night.

When they had finished, he had reluctantly taken his leave to go down to the floor and check in with the whales and his floor manager. He had been about to open the door before she had grabbed his hand, pulling it to her lips, saying "Good night, Terry."

With that, he had been unable to hold back, and had crushed her to him again, had kissed her passionately, though briefly, murmuring against her ear, "You're making it hard to leave."

She had pecked him on the lips again, then pulled away. "Go on then." She had smiled so happily at him that he had to kiss her once more before he had left, and could not help but glance up at the security cameras on his way down to the casino. Shaking himself of the paranoia, he had spent the next several hours being extra solicitous to his guests on the floor.

They had not had much chance since then to spend time together. She had called him twice about the gala, and he had answered quickly. While he could not be with her, he had thought of her whenever he had a moment to spare, and had sent her orchids toward the end of the week with a note reminding her about boxing night, that she could meet him in the office at eight that night.

When the next Saturday evening approached, he found time to buzz over to his suite to shower and change, a luxury he rarely allowed himself. The dark grey suit made his hair blacker, the cream vest and matching cravat were spotless. His reflection was flushed, and he gave himself a stern talking to in front of the mirror.

Slow down. Think about this. The last boxing night had been disastrous, the entire casino had gone haywire, and he had lost Tess. Nerves clenched. No one had seen any of the Ocean gang; they were confirmed to be busy working on the Bank casino job, and he had already made a call to France to manage the second half of that gig. There was no other man chasing after Grace – at least, none that he knew of, and extra security measures had been put into place.

Still, he could not help but be uptight about every step of the evening. Finding his way back to his office, he paced, waiting for her, waiting for the evening to be over and successful at that.

Eight sharp came her knock, and he pounced on the door. She stood, hand still raised, then smiled delightedly as she looked him up and down. He also stared; she was wearing a slim jersey dress in a pale cream, a smattering of clear sequins here and there, accenting her shoulders and trailing down her side. The cut of the neckline was sexy and demure at once, and her heels were her classic splash of color; bright green.

"May I?" She slid in and gently closed the door while he continued to drink her in. He didn't think he would be so hungry for her nearness, for her scent. She moved to her purse, a soft gold color, and pulled out a square of silk.

Moving to the desk, he watched her expertly fold it and was unprepared when she stepped up and popped it smartly into his vest pocket.

"There," she stood back, self satisfied. "Just like Frank."

He looked down, realizing she had done the Sinatra fold, the raw silk a dead match for his vest. Shaking his head, he glanced up. "How did you know the color?"

She shrugged, laughing a little. "Well, it's the cardinal rule of event planning. When in doubt of a dress color, go with white. Though, you never wear true white, so I went with the ivory. It does look very good."

He wanted to move toward her, but paused, remembering the security cameras in the corner. She followed his eyes with hers and he saw her visibly slump a little. He took her elbow and reopened the door.

"Let's go."

They walked swiftly down toward the casino, and as they neared the stairways, he dropped his hand, but muttered, "Stay close."

She nodded, subdued, and within moments his staff had descended upon them. They were rushed, ushered, and almost pushed into the arena, with enough cameras flashing and enough shouting to confuse even him. If his handlers had lost Grace in this mess, they'd be speaking directly to him about it.

But when they got to their seats near the front, she was there beside him almost immediately, and she looked grateful for the pause. Amid the shouting, he looked down at her, finding himself swelling with pride, expecting everyone to see how beautiful she looked, that she was his. Leaning in, so his mouth tickled her ear, he said,

"Thank you for the gift, Grace. I like it very much."

Her eyes flicked to the pocket scarf and then met his, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes as she nodded, not bothering to try and shout over the noise.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The match was something to see. She couldn't help but get into it. The jumping fans, screaming for blood, brought back the sport in her, and she finally lost her head and yelled for her favorite.

When they sat during break, she saw Terry glancing at her, bemused. "I didn't think you'd like it this much," he teased, but she saw he was pleased.

Giving a little shake to her head, she lifted her chin, "I was an athlete once, you know. This competition is fierce!"

He nodded before the whistle blew once more and everyone stood for the next round. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Terry motion over one of his staff, but his exchange was lost as the bell rang and the match began again.

The heat and excitement in the room was palpable, but she felt him grow stiffer with each minute, his face was tight with worry and he stopped looking pleasant once it hit the final match-up.

She was determined not to let him spoil her mood, and purposefully ignored his surliness, cheering with victory when her favorite scored the final blow and raised his arms as winner.

Clasping her hands, she turned to him, flushed and thrilled. His face was shiny with sweat, but she watched as he relaxed noticeably. An actual smile broke out on his face, and she asked breathlessly,

"What is it? Did your man win?"

Shaking his head dumbly, he turned as his staff came up behind him and handed him a stack of cash. Tucking it in his suit jacket, he looked at her with a rueful grin.

"Ready for the parties?"

"Parties?" She felt herself fill with confusion, then realization. Of course there would be partying and celebrations, and as casino owner, he was required to make appearances throughout the evening. She'd be an idiot to think that they could simply disappear for the night. It'd been a while since they'd had a moment together, and she'd missed him, been looking forward to this.

Giving him another smile, she nodded. "You lead."

They were filed out of their seat in preference to most others, and were escorted by a flank of bodyguards, staffers and assistants. Jumbled words and orders were given, Terry directing and delegating with ease. He was in his element, she noticed, and watched him manage people and logistics with pride. If anything, he understood all this, and would understand her work, too.

The first stop was in one of the restaurants at the casino, which had been done over to look like a 1930's speakeasy, with vintage music by an old band, and lots of martinis.

She heard Terry at her side giving orders; "I'll have the usual for these things, and give her the same."

Turning, Grace was ready to protest; she could not hold her vodka well. He gave her a wink; when the waiter came back with two clear, small tumblers, her first thought was sake, but when she lifted it gingerly to her lips, she was shocked to taste nothing more harmless than water.

"Wh—." She raised her eyebrows at him. Leaning in, he clinked his glass with hers.

"Sip it for a while; does the trick and looks like you're drinking Patron. We'll be able to last all night like this."

She had to laugh at his genius, and took another tiny sip. He moved away to shake hands with some men, and she went to sit by two older women decked out in sequins who welcomed her with classic phrases such as: "Why hello there, dear!"

They chatted on opposite ends of the room for about an hour there before Terry came to claim her, offering small talk to the ladies as he picked up Grace's hand. As they were ushered out of the bar to the elevators, he asked, amused, "So, what did they want?"

She shrugged, smirking, "They wanted to know what high roller I was dating, nosy old things. I told them none, and they seemed quite beside themselves to ask another personal question like that, so I turned it around on them. They like to chat about themselves, their jewels. It was very entertaining." She meant it, too. She had enough blueblood to know how to mingle with money, and she was determined to show him that she could handle her own.

"We've only got three more stops," he mentioned, as they stepped onto the third floor and were brought to another private gathering. They were immediately handed their small sifters of water, and she sipped hers delicately, eyeing up the room. This was mostly young blood, hot new money, and the girls were all in their twenties with attitudes. A few young bucks, cocky, came up to shake Terry's hand, and the room seemed to revolve around the young man in the center.

This one put her quite out of her element, and she moved to the corner of the room, making a few comments to the girls standing there. One of them looked relieved to have someone to talk to as well, and they fell in to the same conversations of uncertainty; clothes, shoes, hair and nails. It was mindless chatter, and a pair of twin girls came to join in the conversation.

"Ladies," one of the hot shot boys had come over, placing a hand on Grace's hip and one of the twin's. "Who's going to be my lucky lady in craps tonight?"

She shifted out of his grasp, knowing Terry's eyes were on them even without looking up. Shaking her head and clucking her tongue, she admonished lightly; "Oh go on. I'm too old to be lucky for you."

The second twin wound her arms around his waist, and placated with the two redheads, he moved away. Grace turned back to the first girl, only to feel a light touch on her waist again. Spinning to warn off the youngster again, she was met with Terry's smirk. He dropped his hands from her immediately, but nodded, telling her it was time to go. She gave a smile of apology to her new acquaintance, downed the rest of her water drink and followed him out.

"How are you holding up?" They were in the elevators again, and he was resting his arms against the opposite side of the box. Two of his staff were there with them, and though they kept their eyes on the ground, Grace suddenly found herself filled with the same paranoia that probably kept Terry on edge all the time. The two were listening acutely to their conversation, and she knew she sounded a little breathless when she answered him.

"I'm doing quite well."

"Two more."

The next one was a blur, a disco, and enough people in 70's costume to make heads spin. Thankfully, that stop was brief, though they had to pause while Terry issued some curt instructions to a few of the security guards there. Glancing at her as once again they entered the elevators, he mentioned offhandedly, "Drug watch."

Shaking her head, she was amazed at the pieces he kept juggling at all times. His discipline was truly astonishing.

They were nearing the top floor, and he looked at her with an apology, "I'm afraid this one is the most officious. They're old money again, very affluent and worldly, and they like to keep their gatherings…old school."

She inhaled, nodding. One more party, then she hoped to have him to herself.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Terry watched her close her eyes and breathe deeply as the elevator doors opened onto the private suite of one of his biggest whales. Ferdinand Eisengarde was old European blood, and he kept his gatherings as such. Throughout the suite, sequined old biddies gossiped and waved hands dripping with jewels, and the men nodded somberly over glasses of brandy.

Music was playing; a small quartet in the corner was going on with old fashioned waltzes. A small space was created around two elderly couples twirling slowly to the tune. His eyes swept the room, noticing Ferdinand talking animatedly to some of his guests, so he went instead to the nearest bar and ordered his "usual."

Grace had wandered over to the full floor to ceiling windows, leaning over interestedly to check out the strip below. He watched her bend slightly to make a smiling comment to two of the ladies seated near her, and then go back to gazing. Against the blue black of the sky, her small, lean figure was accented in the white dress, the curves of her hips and thighs were outlined in the jersey, and he found himself loosing the thread of the conversation he was having sporadically with the two men at the bar. Shaking himself, he turned away from her. Grace must not interfere with business.

"As I was saying, Mr. Benedict," came the officious voice of one. "You must not like the shadow cast over the pool of the Mirage by the new Bank casino, eh?"

He gave a small snort of approval; the words were nearly exact to what he'd said to Danny Ocean earlier. "It's a big one, boys," he amended diplomatically. "But Asian inspired."

The two Europeans shook their heads with disapproval. It was men like this that his casino guaranteed; only the Venetian rivaled the old world elegance at the Bellagio.

A murmur and shift of music made him turn. Grace was dancing with Ferdinand; a slow, gentle waltz that hit him in the stomach with a strange mix of jealousy and pride. She was lovely, moving perfectly with the gentleman, letting him lead, her head demurely to the side as he spoke to her in quiet tones. She laughed and smiled; all eyes were on them as he twirled her expertly to a traditional tune.

He wanted to cut in and claim her as his, but knew it to be impossible. It would be an incredible insult to Ferdinand at his own party, and clients came first in situations like this.

It was, thankfully, a shortened version of the music, and Ferdinand relinquished Grace with a flourish. She gave a little traditional curtsey, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment or excitement; he wasn't sure. Either way, she was now in a small flock of older women; he heard their questions over the new dull roar of resumed conversations:

"Where did you learn to dance, dear, you do it so well."

"Not many young know how to do the traditional four-step anymore, very well done, very well."

He did not hear Grace's answer, but any more reflection was lost because Ferdinand had presented himself at the bar, and Terry made his move to schmooze immediately.

"I hear they're bringing up the poker table later, Sir Eisengarde," he mentioned respectfully, glad that money would continue to pour out of this expensive suite all night.

"Oh yes. Will you be staying, my good man?" Taking a sip of the brandy, Ferdinand turned toward him, interested on some level. Terry hated this type of talk; he was comping the suite, but old money like this always saw him as their footman, the condescending air was barely hidden.

Glancing again at Grace, he shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Work calls."

"Work? Or play?" Ferdinand lowered his voice tastefully and Terry was suddenly very glad for the old man's breeding. Gesturing a bit with his drink, the count continued, "She tells me she's yours."

"She is." He felt pride fill his chest. He saw her looking their way, and made a small motion with his hand. They watched her excuse herself and pick her way over to join them at the bar.

"Hello again, Count Ferdinand," she said cordially, her eyes smiling at both men. "Thank you again for the lovely dance."

"Oh no, my dear. The pleasure was mine," the elder bent over her hand in a gesture of chivalry. "Where did you learn to dance the waltz?"

"My father was very good. He taught all of us the steps," she explained.

Nodding, the European took another sip of his drink. "Bravo, bravo. Well done indeed." He waited a beat, then turned to Terry. "Good of you to stop in, old boy."

Then purposefully, he moved away, calling over the din to another group, and Terry had to work hard to keep from cracking a grin. Trust the gentleman to see how eager he was to be gone, to be alone with Grace. He had to hand it to him, it was a classy and appreciated move.

"Well." He looked down at her. "Are you ready to go?"

"Are we free to, so soon?"

"You made a splash with that dance, and we've just been very elegantly dismissed by the count himself. Yes, we're able to go."

She nodded, and he ushered her out with a few last good byes to others. They were in the elevators, alone and without staff for the first time in hours, and he heard her breath with relief.

They stood side by side, and he pressed the button to his suite. Grace was looking at him, and reached to smooth a wrinkle in his pocket scarf. She let her hand fall, one of her fingers hooking with his. Automatically, he flicked her away.

"Really, Terry," she admonished, though there was a lightness in her voice. "It does little harm to let the video feed see us holding hands once in a while. After tonight, they'll have enough bodies to watch in the elevators, and it's very obvious that I'm with you, so there's no surprise there. Is there much that can come in it?"

He had to admit, there was logic in her reasoning. Glancing up at the blinking red light once more, he took a quiet breath, and grasped her hand, linking her fingers with his. His nerves were on edge until the elevators pinged and opened onto his private suite.

Stepping into the camera free zone, he breathed a sigh of relief.

It was over. Boxing night had been a success, and Grace was still here, with him in his rooms; nothing had happened.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

She looked at him, amazed at the relaxing of his shoulders. He must get more nervous and tense about events than he led on. It was very touching to see him here, in his own space.

He let go of her hand, "A drink?"

"Yes, please," she said, and wandered over to the large floor to ceiling windows that took up a whole wall. Spread below her again was the Vegas strip, twinkling and glittering. Tomorrow was Sunday, and she was looking forward to the rest and relaxation of a day doing nothing.

Terry was clinking with glassware in his kitchen, and she took a moment to look at his space. Blacks and navy were softened with thick white rugs and shiny Lucite. It was a very manly space.

"Here," He was back, two glasses of champagne and a bottle. Handing her one, he clinked his glass with hers before taking a swig and settling into a big leather chair.

She sunk on the chair's armrest, wanting to be close to him, to touch him. She'd thought of their kisses all week, and while nervous to get too carried away, she needed him, wanted to run her fingers along his shoulders and arms.

Sipping the champagne, she felt his fingers along her back, trailing her hip and coming to rest lightly on her leg.

"It was a good night, Terry. Very exciting," she mentioned, content.

"That reminds me." His hand left her thigh and he pulled out the packet of money he'd gotten at the end of the match. "Half of this is yours."

"What?" Shocked, she watched him count out ten thousand dollars and hold it out to her. "I didn't place any bets."

"I know. But I did, on your favorite. He won, so I'm splitting the winnings with you; you doubled my money. Half of this is rightfully yours."

"But—," she sputtered, afraid to take the cash, downing the rest of the champagne in her nervousness. "But it was your money to begin with. I can't accept it."

He frowned at her, unaccustomed to being told no. Standing, he set his own empty glass and grabbed her hand roughly, slapping the bills into her palm.

"Accept it. It's yours. You won it."

She stared at the bills. It was the most money in cash that she'd ever touched, and she stroked the top bill gingerly. Pressing her lips together, she decided it was not worth wasting their time together with a fight, and set the stack next to the champagne.

"Thank you, then." Meeting his eyes, she thought back to his other strange behavior. "Now…are you alright? You seemed so agitated over the match. Was it about the money?"

He started to shake his head, then paused and looked back at her, "Yes. I was wondering if we'd win."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He seemed off color, as if he was hiding something; usually Terry was very straightforward. Shrugging it off for now, she sighed, glancing again at the cash.

"Well, if you ever need it back…"

When she looked back up, he had stepped closer, and in an instant he was holding her, kissing her fully and hungrily. "I need you now, Grace," he whispered to her, in between capturing her lips and eyelids.

Giving herself up to the pleasure, she let him pull out her pins, and his hands were suddenly in her hair, yanking lightly, pulling her head back so he could pepper her collarbone with kisses, making her weak in the knees.

Grasping him to her, she slid her hands up and gently tugged at his jacket, then freed his neck from the cravat. He leaned into her hands, then in an instant had pulled her to the large long couch where he picked her up lightly and laid down with her, their bodies aligned and pressed together.

She felt his vest buttons against her breasts, but her hands were already busy caressing his face, and she couldn't stop to think to remove any more of his clothing, and in a few lucid moments, she knew she was too afraid to do so.

"My God, Grace," his voice was a muffled moan as he reached for her, his hands had found the lace strap of her bra, and in a mindless clasp, he had a hand halfway up her jersey skirt, brushing the curvy, creamy flesh of her inside thigh. She arched at his touch, a flush growing on her skin; she could feel the hotness of her desire wrapping itself through her loins. With a groan, he pressed his lips in the soft dent of her throat, suckling lightly and she gasped in sudden pleasure. He kneaded her thigh as she pressed her hands into his chest, feeling the muscles under his shirt, running her nails lightly over his stomach.

"Wait, wait," she pressed a kiss to his hand, pulling it from her shoulder, sitting up. "We should wait."

He paused, and seemed to come to, and joined her along the side of the couch, wrapping his hands around her waist, his chin resting against her shoulder.

"Too early," he agreed, and his voice was low and husky in her ear. She nodded, thankful he agreed before she heard him continue devilishly, "And a bed would be in order, don't you think?"

She gave a tremulous laugh. "That would be much more romantic."

She felt him shift next to her, and then he was sitting back in the couch, a finger on his lips as he stared at her. Turning to look at him, she marveled how handsome he looked in his vest and shirt, the open collar made him look younger and dashing.

"Speaking of romance, Grace," he paused. "I want you to come to south France with me next weekend."

Excitement and disbelief ran through her. "France?"

He nodded, waiting for her answer. It took her a bare few seconds. "Of course, Terry. I—I'm thrilled. You—but are you sure it's allowed? Surely it's business."

Shrugging, he reached for the champagne again, and she saw a small smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Damn him for dangling a prize like that; she'd be a fool not to accept it and he knew it.

"Oh it's business…but not all of it. I've got a villa; there will be sailing."

She leaned in to accept the second glass from him, paused, then slid over the smooth leather so that she was nestled into the crook of his arm; his hand came around her protectively, his fingers splayed across her stomach.

"I'm honored."

"You'll be able to spend some of that hard earned money on some French shopping," he tried to talk light, but she saw he was very pleased with himself. "Try to make it sound less boring."

She gave a laugh, incredulous and excited. "I'm afraid if I really think about it, I'll get all silly on you. Will we get to spend any time together?"

He looked at her, then kissed her forehead. "Is that what you'd like most?"

"Desperately."

"Then you'll have it. Every day together, every hour."

Joy spread its way through her bones, and she closed her eyes against the intensity of it. "That will be simply wonderful. Much better than shopping."

He was quiet, and she opened her eyes to see him looking at her with a quizzical expression. Thinking she had shown too much emotion, she settled back and sipped the champagne.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

They discussed their trip in vague details; he seemed to like keeping her in suspense, and by the time they'd finished the bottle, her eyes felt heavy and their conversation had died. Glancing up, she saw Terry drifting off himself. Plucking his glass out of his limp fingers, she set both next to the empty bottle, and made to get up.

"Stay," it was a whisper, and needing no further encouragement from him, she sunk back down to his side, laying her head against his chest and drifting off to an elevated and deep sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

She woke without an alarm; the dawn creeping over the city was a slow and peaceful wake up. Tasting the champagne on her tongue from the evening before, she lifted her head. She thought fuzzily, happily, of how she'd fallen asleep next to Terry, then realized she slept with one of the plush white blankets tucked around her legs, and his arm was draped over her waist; he was sound asleep on the couch next to her, stretched out and clearly in a very deep slumber.

Unable to leave him, but now fully awake, she let herself gaze without worry on his face.

In the early light, his face was relaxed, and the leftover wrinkles along his eyes were fine and few. It was hard to remember he was easily ten years her senior sometimes, and in sleep his hair had become slightly mussed, making him look boyish and roguish again.

She thought of France with delight. It would be a gem of time together; she was excited and nervous about getting all her work done so that she could enjoy their time there without always turning to the job.

Glancing up at their used champagne glasses, she saw her 'earned' money on the table, and smiled. It would go to good use, buying a ticket to Europe. She hadn't been there in ages.

"What are you smiling about so early?"

His voice was soft and muddled, but she looked down at him again, where he laid in his rumpled shirt and vest, one arm now propped behind his head, the other squeezing her waist. He looked very satisfied.

"I'm thinking about how that match money will be put to good use. A ticket to France is just the thing."

Immediately his eyes darkened. "You don't use that. The tickets will be taken care of."

Chagrined, she felt her debt to him settle further on her chest. "Really, I am grateful, but it's not necessary. I can afford it."

"So can I," he countered. "And it's my invitation; I make the decisions. You will not be buying the ticket." For an instant, he looked less like a hard casino boss and more like a petulant little boy, and she couldn't stop from smiling at him. It took him back, and he frowned further. "I won't negotiate this, Grace."

Shaking her head, she settled down next to him, tucking her cheek against his shoulder comfortably.

"Alright, you win. I just didn't want to assume—."

Now both his arms were around her. "Good."

She wasn't sure what he meant; was he thankful that she'd stopped arguing, that she was letting him pay, that she wasn't money hungry? Either way, she reasoned that all of those things would be good for him to be happy about, and closed her eyes again, allowing herself a moment of closeness to him.

After a beat, she teased, hoping it wouldn't offend him, "I have to give in when you look like that anyway."

"Look like what?"

"Like an angry young man. It's very dashing, very provocative."

"Provocative?" With that, he'd flipped her to her back, and was above her, a knee on the blanket, but wedged between her legs. He pressed down on her, kissing her jaw before capturing her lips, and as her hands came up to pull him closer, she felt his arousal for the first time against her hip. He ran his hands along the side of her body, tucking her closer; his thumb brushed the side of her breast lightly. It made her ache with desire.

"Terry," she breathed, and saying his name only seemed to impassion his ministrations. Taking her hands to either side of his face, she kissed him hard, then broke it, gasping with pleasure. "Terry, please."

He paused, leaning his forehead against hers; she could smell their kiss, and under it all, could smell her lust for him. It had been a long time since she'd been here, caught between passion and affection. The combination was at once terrifying, familiar, and comforting.

Slowly, gently, she lifted her face to his, and kissed his eyelids. "We should get up."

His head shook ruefully in agreement, but when she pulled herself up to a sitting position against the edge of the couch, he flopped back, eyes closed.

"Not a morning person?" she quipped, smirking at him.

Still with his eyes closed, he answered briefly, "I am, actually, Grace. Just trying to calm down before hitting the gym."

Leaning in, still desiring him, she blew light kisses into his ear and along his jaw. "I suppose that doesn't help?"

"No."

Placing a hand on his cheek, she rose, and straightened her dress. He opened his eyes, intensely sizing her up.

"I'm glad you stayed, Grace."

She gazed levelly back. "I'm glad you're a gentleman."

He gave a low chuckle, then watched her move to slip on her heels. She cocked her head at him. "Will I be seeing you in the gym?"

He nodded, then watched her leave.

When she closed the door to his suite and got into the elevator down, she couldn't help but glance up at the blinking security cameras. If anyone wanted to speculate during her morning walk of shame, now would be the time to start rumors amid the staff. She smiled to herself. Let them talk. She rather liked being Terry Benedict's girlfriend.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

He hurried to the gym, eager to get there before many of the guests. When he walked in, he looked for Grace but didn't see her. Clenching his jaw, he went straight to the weight machines, working the iron until the sweat poured off his skin.

She'd fallen into a deep sleep last night, and when he'd woken an hour or two later, his arm had also fallen asleep. As he laid her out on the couch clumsily, trying not to wake her, fumbling with a blanket to cover her bare legs, he had felt a pang of fondness for her, and realized he couldn't leave her alone, to wake by herself. At the same time, he worried for his discipline, already barely in check, if he took her to the bedroom. So, he had stretched out beside her, looking at the color of her skin, tucking in her dress tag, and then it had taken very few minutes before he also drifted off.

Now to France. His mind went to the organization he was trying to coordinate between himself and Francois Toulour. He wanted eyes on the Ocean gang as soon as possible. There were too many pieces to keep on tab, too many men to track alone, and his bodyguards were none too secretive.

He tried to focus on the diamonds, but couldn't; his mind went next to the bracelet he'd bought Grace, and then to Grace herself. She would need things for France; they'd have parties with the rich elite.

Thinking back to her size on the dress tag from last night, he thought about the boutiques he'd call after readying for the day; glad Sundays afforded him a bit more luxury for time.

Finishing his work out, he glanced around, still looking for Grace. If she said she'd be down, he figured she'd have arrived. Strolling past all the work-out rooms, he nonchalantly glanced in each window briefly, wiping his face with a towel as he went.

There.

He stopped; she was in one of the dance suites. Barefoot, with loose dancer's clothes, she was finishing a few leaps and extra steps before flattening herself on the floor in a deep stretch. Pausing for a moment, he knocked briefly, but had walked in by the time she had looked up. Nothing was off limits in his casino, after all.

"Terry! Did you have a good exercise?" She pulled out her earphones; sweat was beading down her forehead, but her cheeks were ruddy.

"I did." He felt foolish towering over her, and came to a slow squat next to her. He'd never seen such a clear outline of her body before; the slow curve of her buttocks to her waist. The sport top pressed her breasts down, but gave her more cleavage than he'd ever seen out of her, and he found himself staring as she finished a stretch.

He met her eyes, and she was smiling shyly at him. "See something you like?"

"Many things." Standing, he put out his hand to help her to her feet.

As they walked out, she mentioned that she'd be heading out to grab an international chip for her phone and other travel toiletries. She asked if he needed anything, and he found himself supplying her with a few mundane items to find, "Those disposable razors" and "One smaller bottle of Givenchy." It was only after she'd nodded at him with a smile and went to her own suite that he realized what he'd said, and felt like an idiot. He had people to go running his errands for him.

After showering, he went to his office and rummaged through the latest reports on the casino floor, and found himself flipping through Grace's FBI profile again. Damn, the woman was officially under his skin. He'd need to get a grip if he was to manage this Ocean operation.

Realizing he wouldn't be able to concentrate until he had taken care of his thoughts, he sighed and picked up the phone.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

She came into her suite later in the afternoon, shopping bags slung around her wrists. It had been a little tiring chasing after all the extra travel pieces. Smaller liquid bottles for her carryon, plastic bags and extra eyedrops. Amid it all, she'd found extra pleasure in picking up Terry's few requests. It made her feel domestic again, though walking into a Vegas hotel instead of a cozy home was a definite change.

Walking into her rooms, she glanced around, half expecting to see him but unsurprised to find him missing. He worked even on Sundays, she knew, and that was part of why she looked forward to this little bit of time in France; she'd have him all to herself, away from the prying cameras and extra staff.

How strange, she mused to herself, that he had taken over her thoughts so completely. He was always there on the edge of her mind, tantalizing and solid. She found it difficult to remember how unprofessional this was, that she was spending nights sleeping in the arms of her client.

But, she reasoned, he'd given her very little options otherwise. Once Terry Benedict decided he wanted something, he was damn sure he'd get it. And she hadn't given much resistance; she wanted him just as desperately.

Taking her time unpacking her items, she set Terry's things on the kitchenette island so she wouldn't forget to give them to him, and, after hesitating slipped into a pink cotton frock, something casual and loose.

Pulling paperwork toward her, she uncorked the scotch and poured herself an early evening drink, and began to double check weddings out east, preparing for the fall one in upstate New York, re-familiarizing herself with the logistics.

Before she knew it, she jerked awake, and then frantically looked for the time. Dusk had settled outside, but the clock only read an hour later than when she'd first sat down. Realizing she would not be able to work again until the next day, she turned on the television and surfed the available movies.

There was an excellent war intrigues option, and as she began to press play, she paused. Was this allowed on the client's dime? Would Terry be looking at her suite bills, analyzing all her choices? Grace felt herself panic for a moment. This was where the foggy lines blurred again for her.

Sunday at six. What else was there to do in his office? On a whim, she picked up her iPhone and punched his number.

"Yes?"

"I—are you very busy? This isn't important."

His voice was indistinguishable for an instant, then he was back. "No, just wrapping up."

"I miss you. Care to come up and watch a movie?"

There was a short pause, "I haven't watched a film in…well, a damned long time, Grace."

"Then you deserve a break."

"Fifteen minutes, I'll be up."

With that, he hung up, and she followed. Briskly, she cleaned up the stacked office papers and left them off to the side. She realized that her dress, while comfortable, was rather revealing. Grabbing her peach sweater, and pulling out Terry's preferred drink of choice, she prepped him a glass and, after a pause, went to find the popcorn in the kitchenette.

When he arrived, exactly fifteen minutes later, the place smelled like hot popcorn, and she greeted him with a quick kiss on the cheek and a cold glass of whiskey.

"A man could get used to this," he told her. "What movie are we watching, with all the trimmings?"

"Sum of all Fears. Great Tom Clancy classic."

"I have to say I've never seen it."

"You're a busy man, you can't help it" she said, and went to grab the popcorn. She watched him stroll over to the couch, sipping his drink, looking absently at her paperwork. Following him, she set down the bowl and put her hands together, determined to ask his permission.

"I hope you don't mind me doing this, on company money and all—."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't go there, Grace."

She sighed, looking at him in consternation as he sat down, glass in hand. "Stand back up, please."

"What?" he gazed up at her, disconcerted.

"Stand up. You can't watch a movie like that."

He stood up uncertainly, and she knew now would not be the time to giggle at him; she'd unbalanced him for sure, but she was determined to get him to relax a bit more. Reaching out, she plucked the glass out of his fingers, and reach up for his cravat. Once she began untying it, he stopped moving, his eyes on her face and his hands at his sides, letting her do what she wanted.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

It felt like Grace took forever to pull off his tie, his jacket. He had been initially confused when she'd demanded he relax, but letting her slowly undress him was one of the best ideas she could have suggested.

When she started on the buttons of his vest, he had a moment of panic. She was stripping him down to his dress shirt, then his belt. It felt vulnerable and delicious.

"I'm sure this is very unprofessional of me, Mr. Benedict," she said, and he had to chuckle at that, trying not to think of the sexuality of her pulling off his crisp leather belt.

"Would you like me to write a review of your services, Ms Bery?" he returned, purposefully keeping the mood playful.

Her eyes met his. "Perhaps not."

"No?"

"Well, I wouldn't want anyone getting any ideas that this is expected customer service."

He sat again, devoid of most of his layers and a lessened pressure in his gut. She settled next to him and handed back his whiskey.

"It's not?" he was interested to see where this led the conversation.

She shook her head, and picked up the remote. "Absolutely not. I have to say, this is unorthodox to the highest degree. I've not done this for…well…" She trailed off, and was quiet for a moment. Realizing he'd once again dragged up memories of Paul, he stroked her arm with a finger.

"Years, Grace?"

Nodding silently, she pressed play, and after a beat, leaned into his side. He felt a pang at causing her discomfort when she'd been trying so hard to please him, and bent to touch his lips to her hair, inhaling her scent.

"I didn't mean to make you think—," he started quietly under the starting music of the opening titles.

"I know, Terry," she broke in softly, but snuggled in closer, bringing the popcorn to his lap, where they could share.

Halfway through the flick, he had a moment where he realized what he was doing. Sitting during a Sunday night with a woman in his arms, watching a movie and eating popcorn like a regular old chap who had a home and a wife. Domesticated. He looked down at her, unsure what to feel.

Desire, yes. Lust, definitely. He had wanted her and he had won her. She was pliable—to a point. He understood that there had to be a backbone of steel somewhere within her to run a business, to handle the aftermath of her husband's death. But for now, she was simply his girl, his woman, and even though that made him a bit of a settled man, he found he had no problem with his current situation.

The movie, he had to admit as it winded down, had been very good. He almost wanted to see it again. Intrigue was just his style.

"Did you like it, Terry?" she sat up, moving the empty popcorn bowl and finishing off her scotch.

"I did," he admitted, then checked the clock. Nearly nine. "Dinner?"

She hesitated. "Do I need to get dressed up again?"

He found himself momentarily irritated, then thought about the layers of clothes he'd also have to put back on. Chuckling ruefully, he cocked an eyebrow at her, "Room service again?"

She got up slowly, unwinding, and padded over to the thick binder. He watched the undulation of her hips through the cotton dress, and decided he was glad they'd stay in. He didn't need to be seen every night eating, and Sunday was most definitely a slow evening on the floor.

"I've got to find a local grocery store. That kitchen needs to be used," she said as she brought the room service list to him. "You pick this time."

"No French?" he gave her a twisted grin.

"It's your day," she cleared the popcorn and bent to pour them both another short drink. He watched her bend over, getting a delicious view of her cleavage, but was able to glance at the binder before she caught him staring.

Strangely, he wasn't familiar with the menus, and took some time picking his choices for them to share. As she sifted through her paperwork, they sat in comfortable silence until he stood up to order.

Once off the phone, he went back to the couch, untucking his shirt unconsciously as he did so, and she leaned back.

"Work again tomorrow will come too early," she sighed, pushing paperwork aside and making room for him as he sat. He nodded, thinking of the plans he'd have to make in order to get to France without too many worries. The only wrench would be if Ocean's men needed to talk to him, and he'd be gone. Well, nothing to be done, they were going. It wasn't safe to talk about his plan with Toulour on the phone, and he liked having an excuse to take Grace away.

He flipped on the news, and sipped his drink, enjoying the moments of quiet, answering Grace's questions about French fall weather and what she should expect in sailing.

When the knock came for room service, he forgot to play chivalrous knight and Grace jumped up to get the door. As he heard the food jingle in, he was partially glad he had stayed seated. It was much harder for the staff to see in what state of undress he was in at this point.

She must have tipped the man generously; he left with many thanks. Standing up again, he went to help her carry plates to the dining table.

On the kitchenette were his razors and cologne, and he caught himself staring at the items. What a strange thing to ask her to pick up; so ordinary and almost embarrassing. He was going soft around the edges. But when he sat down next to her at the little table, and started to talk about the origins of Spanish food, and then they got into the history of Mexico and America, he found himself looking at her with happiness, coveting her singular attention. Even if he was going a little soft, no one needed to know but Grace.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

She called Shannon at the Boston office the next morning, bright and early. It was time to talk about Terry.

"What's up?" Shannon's voice was warm and comforting across the line. "Emergency in Vegas?"

"No, no, nothing like that. It's six in the morning here, nothing's happening yet."

"Alright. Did you get the files on the New York wedding?"

"Yes." Grace glanced at the stack next to her. "Started to go through it yesterday; I know it's coming up fast."

"Less than two weeks. Last minute details. Gotta love brides," Shannon was peppy for a Monday. "Particularly I want your thoughts on the schedule for the photographer. He's gotten very ambitious."

They dove into the issue, and for a few moments, Grace forgot about the nature of her call until they were about to sign off.

"Wait. Shannon," she paused. "I'm going to be unavailable on Friday – but then my phone will be back on throughout the rest of the day and Saturday."

"Okay." The word was drawn out; she was waiting for Grace to finish.

"I'm – heading out of the country for a quick little break."

"What? Where?" There was more curiosity than shock in Shannon's voice.

"France."

A long pause came, then a great whoosh of breath. "Are you going with a man?"

"Yes."

"Is he handsome?"

Grace thought of Terry last night, disheveled in his dress shirt, sitting comfortably on her couch, his dark eyes watching the movie intently, a broad hand absently rubbing her shoulder.

"Oh, very," she hedged. "I think so, anyway."

"He's a Vegas man, though," Shannon began sensibly, and Grace knew exactly where this was heading. Her careful assistant, trying to be tactful. "So…it can't be something very serious?"

"It's very early, Shannon."

"Early to go to France, too. Can he be trusted?"

"He's a little too visible to be shady in dealings," Grace finally countered, guilty in her half-fib...she knew nothing of his nature, really. Nothing about his business. She pushed the nerves away. "But—it's been ages since I've—since—."

She didn't need to finish, and they both were thinking of Paul, the cancer, the long agonizing months of pain and waiting and hoping.

"You're right, I guess," Shannon's voice was still guarded. "What's his name?"

"Terry."

"Nice." She hadn't put two and two together, and Grace left it at that. There'd be time enough for the explosion that was certain to come once Shannon realized that she was romancing around the world with their biggest client. If something went terribly awry, it would be horrible for business. Deciding she would not cast a negative light over her new affection, she moved the conversation to their other upcoming wedding in Boston.

She had filled her week with meetings about the New Year's gala at the Bellagio, and had little time to keep up with her paperwork, let alone her personal life. She figured he was busy as well with preparing to leave the casino for a few days, and a few evenings went by when they did not see each other, let alone chat.

There were bands to see and hear, florists to book, sample tabletops to set up. She had several delegating meetings with her staff, and spent time pouring over logistical flow for each ballroom at the hotel.

Finally it was Thursday, and she realized that while she had no idea what time the plane left for France the next day, she had better get packing.

Letting herself into her suite, she immediately felt that something had changed. There was a certain smell in the rooms, and putting down her tote of binders, she wandered around, half expecting to see him waiting for her somewhere.

Instead, she found boxes piled on her bed in all shades of blue, white and pink. Gasping, she put a hand to her throat.

How could she possibly deal with this gift? It was so much, so expensive. Afraid to even lift the lid on one, she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes briefly. He liked to take care of her, that was obvious. What frightened her so much was that she was beginning to like it too, and to understand that it was his way of communicating with her. What was he was saying—she was too nervous to consider it.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

"Well?"

He had come in silently; the front desk had tipped him when she had walked into the casino, work in hand and phone to her ear. While he had originally thought to finish up in the office first, he found he wanted to watch her face, hear her excitement as she unwrapped his gifts, so he'd followed up shortly behind her.

She was standing with her back against the wall, staring at the untouched bed, a hand to her throat.

"Terry," she turned, looking at him with wide eyes. "I don't know what to say."

"Wait until you open them, then."

She made a step to the boxes, then turned and walked to him, where he leaned against the door jamb. Reaching out, she touched the tips of her fingers to his face.

"This is probably a very inappropriate time to say this, but you know you needn't buy me things. My…my affection for you is based here," she touched his temple lightly, then tapped his chest. "And here. Not the wallet."

Giving her a half smile, he felt himself jolt awake with what she'd said to him. It was, perhaps, a little cliché, but he could tell she had meant it, and meant it sincerely. Grabbing her elbows, he drew her close, pecking her forehead, eyelids and the side of her mouth before pouncing in for a longer kiss.

This time, it was he who broke it, aware that his body was reacting strongly, and the bed was simply too crowded for him to make a go of it.

"Well, aren't you going to see what I've bought you?"

She smiled up at him, kissing his cheek, before moving away again. "I'm a little overwhelmed on where to start."

"The white boxes," he instructed; now that he was here, he would happily orchestrate her experience of his gifts.

Most were from Chanel and Dior. A few long, sparkling evening gowns in dusky champagne and rose, a white cocktail dress with flower appliqués, and several pairs of embellished shoes. Blue boxes held accessories; some hats, practical cotton skirts and shirts, mostly in whites and blues. There was costume jewelry, a few handbags, and then she had moved to the first of the pink boxes.

He was glad to see that the ladies at the shop had remained discreet; there were no labels on the boxes, but Grace was a woman and probably knew what was inside already.

He watched her blush and pause as she unfolded the tissue paper, then she looked up at him shyly, "Did you want to see these too, Terry?"

Yes, he did, desperately, but on her, not hanging limply from her fingers. He'd ordered whatever the girls at the store deemed the essentials in undergarments, which he figured were a combination of bras and panties.

There were, thankfully, only a few of the pink boxes, and while she gave little gasps of pleasure as she opened each, he did not feel inclined to see the items and force her to be embarrassed.

The last one opened, and this one she flushed deep rose. He shifted, realizing that the fun had ended, the gifts were unwrapped, but this time she dipped her hands in and pulled out a soft peach negligee, with frothy lace along the bodice and the hem.

For a moment, she hesitated, then looked up at him, and he heard himself clear his throat. Had he gone too far? Perhaps there was too much suggestion in such items, but then he saw her smile slowly.

"I like this very much, Terry. It's very pretty; do you think France will be warm enough to wear it?"

She was teasing, baiting him, and like an idiot he fell for it. "I am sure it will be."

"Good."

She draped the silky folds back into the box, and then approached him again. "I'm not sure how to thank you."

He pulled her close, kneading her waist and back, pressing her tightly against him so that he could feel the warm curves of her thighs against his, allowing himself to be slightly aroused at her nearness.

"This is enough, Grace," he said lowly, but was unsure she heard him. Lifting her face up, placing a hand under her chin, he kissed her slowly, languidly, tasting her tongue and her mouth. She melted into him, clinging to his neck, then wrapping her arms about his waist and pulling his pelvis next to hers.

It was at times like this, holding her, that he forgot about the bit of extra weight he carried around his middle, that he had to be continually tough, rough, almost cruel.

He responded instinctively, now fully roused, picking her up suddenly and sitting forcefully in one of the large chairs in the bedroom. She twisted, pulling up the fabric of her dress so that she could sling a leg around his waist and continued to kiss him profoundly, intensely.

He found himself straining against her, grinding tightly where there was friction between them; his hands went first to her hips, then reached lower to grab her arse, squeezing, massaging, pressing as she moved her lips relentlessly over his face, his lips and neck. He was overcome with his lust, with the hunger that washed over him, and under the smell of their heat, her perfume and his cologne came the musky warm smell of desire, and he smiled inwardly. It had been a long time since he'd been in this place.

Somehow they'd been able to stop ravishing each other, and he watched her pull herself up slowly. It seemed undignified to take her in a chair.

She was flushed and through the thin fabric of the silk, he saw the rise and fall of her bosom, the hardened nipples. He felt like a bit of an idiot, splayed out on her chair, nearly panting with need, but all he could do was sit there, watch her smooth her dress, and try to calm down. If she was playing any games to keep him at her whim, she was succeeding tremendously.

"Terry," she said off-hand, her fingers trembling slightly as she adjusted her hem. "I don't believe I can handle this much longer."

"What?" He wasn't sure to what she was referring, and moved to stand as well, straightening his suit jacket as he did so.

"This," she swept up the room, the chair, and him in one long gesture. "How I ache for you, and then there's what you've done for me. It's so wonderful it's scary."

"Good." Pulling her close again for a brief moment, he allowed himself to smell her watery scent once more before letting her go and reaching into the inside of his jacket. He'd brought up the tickets as a last minute grab, not knowing when he'd see her again before their flight. They were slightly creased now from their romp, but he pulled out one and handed it over. She glanced at it, fingering her name on the top.

"First class?"

"Better."

He walked away. It wasn't an actual ticket, more like a voucher, but Grace didn't need to know that they'd be flying over on a small semi-private jet. He liked keeping surprises up his sleeve.

While he'd thought to hire a fully private one, he decided that it was unnecessary. Going charter this way meant his privacy was still relatively in tact, but it also made it seem less like a covert mission to anyone watching. He had to make sure he didn't underestimate Danny Ocean.

"We'll leave here at five in the morning."

"I'll be ready. I doubt I'll sleep," she lifted a corner of an evening gown. "I assume these are meant to be packed and used?"

"That was the idea," he told her, then turned to go.

"Wait." She'd followed him to the door, slipping a hand into his. "I know you've probably got things to do as well, packing to finish." Not really; he had people to do that for him. She continued. "But I…I am so grateful for the beautiful things. Please, tell me how I can thank you."

He leaned down for a quick kiss. "Wear them."

With that, he left her, and the whole way down to the casino floor, he kept reliving her, lifting out that negligee and smiling at him.

He was waiting in the car at quarter to five, more excited that he wanted to admit. She was right on time, trailing a dainty suitcase and dressed like sunlight. She had left her hair down around her shoulders, and was wearing a buttery linen shift and a white shawl was draped over her purse.

"Ms Bery," His driver was already outside. He watched her stop, then recognize James, who took her suitcase deftly. Without pausing, she slid in next to him, and the moment the doors were closed he had draped his arm around her bare shoulders, bringing her closer and kissing the side of her head.

"Ready to go?" he asked her.

"I hope so," she turned her head, catching his lips briefly as the car began to drive away from the Bellagio. "I spent all night packing just so; I didn't want to have to check baggage, you know. Very amateur."

With a feeling of relief as they pulled down the boulevard, Terry let himself laugh out loud, ignoring the surprised glance of his driver in the rear view mirror.

"There'll be plenty of room."

They were speeding along heading out of town, and had Grace looked outside, he was certain she should have seen the tamarack coming up, but instead she was leaning against his side, eyes half closed, playing with his fingers. He had to admit, it was easy, comfortable. Thinking about France, how they'd be alone in the villa with no one to bother them, no one to watch them, he found himself feeling actually jittery.

"We're here."

"So soon?" she sat up straight.

"Yes." He waited for James to open the door, then got out, holding a hand out for her. She grasped it; in the light of early morning her skin looked radiant and if weren't for other guests already on board, he would have kissed her.

"Here we are," with a small motion, he gestured to the jet. Her eyes were wide.

"But—it's private. How did you—?"

"It's not entirely private. Let's go." He ushered her quickly up the plane stairs, but his hurry was unnecessary as it was obvious they were the only ones on board thus far.

"Mr. Benedict. Ms Bery. Right this way," the impersonal but suave stewardess was suddenly there. "The other guests will be arriving shortly."

He felt rushed himself, and was about to snap at the stewardess for being so demanding when there was a rustle at the front of the plane and an elderly couple came clambering in. The man was of the old English variety; his wife a dainty doll dripping in pearls and brocade.

"Good morning," the stewardess moved to them. "Mr. and Mrs. Davies, right this way." She showed them a seat toward the cockpit. "We'll be taking off shortly."

With that, the ramp was coming up, and Grace was standing in the middle of the plane. He glanced at her, wondering what she'd think of this ridiculous display of scuttle – he had planned a very dramatic entrance – when he saw she was trying very hard not to laugh at the entire situation.

Gesturing to a couch, he sat them down, and was relieved to see the other couple settling in far from them, lost in their own world. At least their presence would keep him from any public indecency; being near Grace was intoxicating as it was.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

The take off was smooth. She felt the warmth of Terry's legs next to hers, his manly cologne wafted over her; under it all was the scent of his Cuban cigars. As the stewardess came around with their morning drinks, he leaned back, an arm draped around the back of her seat, and brought a finger to his lips, looking at her with thoughtful eyes.

She unbuckled and moved next to him, feeling comforted when his hand fell onto her shoulder and started to massage it gently.

After several moments, she felt the silence weigh between them more than it had ever before, and she sat back to look at him.

"What is it, Terry?"

He didn't move, still contemplating her, and she felt herself grow nervous for the first time around him – was he reconsidering asking her to France? Insecurities reared their head.

Shifting slightly, he picked up his drink, then found her gaze again. "Can you tell me about him?"

Shaken by his unexpected question, she brought her own drink to her lips, then pressed them together. Could she talk to Terry about Paul? It was still raw, sometimes painful, to do. It had been a long road at a youthful time in her life, and it had aged her.

"What would you like to know?" It was her voice, low.

His hand moved to her knee, as if he was trying to touch her constantly, and she needed it more than he probably knew.

"How did you meet?"

Cocking her head at him, wondering where this sentimentality came from, she gave him the shortened story.

They had met in graduate school, when he had just become junior associate at a Boston firm, which had become a career move for him. Paul had been quiet, bookish, but had been solid and supportive. At his insistence, she had stopped getting a Masters at Boston College and had put her skills to work building Sophisticated Events, which had at first grown slowly.

"He was my rock, the careful planner, the one who watched our money and found us the home in Quincy."

"But then he got sick," Terry prompted her, and she glanced at him, wondering how much exactly was in that background report.

Nodding, she picked up his hand, fiddling with his fingers, unable to look at him. To think she was so happy now, when only a few years ago she'd buried her husband, the man she'd pledged to love forever…it was scary and overwhelming all at once.

"It was a rare type, deep in his trunk; it spread faster than the doctors could keep up with surgery, for his heart, which weakened every time they opened him up. Eventually, it was everywhere, and we just…" she paused, then continued matter-of-factly and forcefully. "We just had to wait. It wore him down, and he was so full of pain…"

"And you were young."

"Yes. We had thought we had our whole lives to plan, dream…at first I hoped that everything would be fixed quickly and easily. But after all the surgeries, and the chemotherapy that didn't work, the radiation that took away any chance of children…"

She looked at him, wondering if he understood loss, and finished quickly, "I was able to throw myself back into work, and the company grew much faster than before; probably because I never had to let up, never had to stop working. I miss him. I miss it."

"It?"

Shrugging, she met his eyes directly. "Marriage. Comfort. Companionship. I'm the marrying type. It suits me; and to lose a spouse so quickly, when I thought everything was in place. It's disconcerting."

"That's an understatement." He had finished his drink while she talked, and looked almost stricken, nervous. "And I cannot say I understand your loss. I've had some, but never—."

"Who was she?" Grace pounced on the opening, recognizing that now was a chance to get him to dissemble. Terry Benedict was not naturally so open, so talkative.

"Tess Ocean. She was tall, a brunette, with the longest legs I'd ever seen. She was an art curator, an artist in her own right. I was very much enthralled with her."

She noticed that he did not use the word 'love,' and wondered if he ever did. Perhaps that was an emotion that he reserved for family, or one he did not feel at all. When it was all boiled down, Terry seemed a solitary man, prone to anger before understanding.

"What happened?"

"I failed her. I chose business over her, money over a woman. She went back to her ex-husband. They've remarried."

Grace watched him hunch his shoulders, uncharacteristically vulnerable, unfamiliarly humble.

"You still miss her." She stated it rather than asked.

He sat still for a minute, then looked at her squarely. "I did."

Warmth spread through her chest, and she brought his hand to her lips and cheek before she leaned back and arranged herself comfortably.

"Well, enough of that talk then. You're away from her, from the casino, from your worries. While you're in the sky, you're free from it all."

He let out a sigh - so strange to hear from him - and she reached for him; unexpectedly he fell to her, stretching out so that his head was in her lap, his legs crossed neatly at the ankles as he laid himself down.

She bent over his him, kissing his forehead softly, then his nose and mouth.

"Sleep a while, darling."

She saw Terry smile slightly at the endearment, his eyes already closed.

And when the stewardess came around to refill juice fifteen minutes later, she found Grace sitting still, absently stroking his hair back as he slept soundly in her arms.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

He didn't want to tell her how unusual it was that he had slept for five hours straight, in the middle of the morning. Perhaps it was because he was out of the casino, and away from his worries, as she had said. Perhaps it was the drone of the plane engine and the spiked juice at several thousand feet. Most probably, it was because he had been able to lay in her arms without thinking about the time, worrying about cameras, and could feel the warmth of her thighs beneath his neck. When she began caressing his head, he'd been done for, and woke much later, realizing that he smelled oranges.

The stewardess was coming around with fruit and croissants, and he opened his eyes, hearing the clink of silver against china coming from the other guests on the plane. Shifting slightly, he looked up to see Grace sitting still, eyes closed lightly. One of her hands was resting on his chest, and when he moved, her eyes opened quickly and she smiled at him.

"You slept well."

"It felt good." He slowly came to a seated position next to her, just in time to reach for the breakfast plates from their stewardess. "I must be catching up."

"It's good for you. Keeps you healthy." She popped a grape into her mouth, and winked at him. "We've still got a few hours. What do we do?"

"Cards."

He waved over the stewardess and requested a deck, then raised an eyebrow at her. "Gin, cribbage or bridge?" He gave a brief nod backwards, indicating they'd have to include the other couple for some of those options.

"Cribbage," she requested.

The landing had been easy, and with the time difference, they still had some of the afternoon before he knew they were required to make an appearance at one of Toulour's parties.

Grace had opened the window on her side of the car, and was letting her hand trail in the wind as they sped through the exotic hills. Nestled among the rocks and trees were sprawling, low mansions and villas, overlooking the aqua waters below. He drove with ease, though it'd been a while since he'd had to drive anywhere. They had a very suave GPS unit in the car, thankfully, and before long, they had arrived at the villa.

While he had depended upon his assistants to make the plans, they knew his taste. It was large, whitewashed, with gleaming red tiles on the roof and immaculate greenery. The driveway was secluded from the main road, and large black gates had swung open slowly before they could enter. There was a short line of staff waiting on the stairs, and two of the butlers, complete with white cotton suit, had stepped up to grasp their car doors. Grace stepped out, her eyes big. He was very pleased she was so impressed.

"Come," he motioned, and they were brought up into the open foyer. Light pooled among deep shadows within the house, and the yellow glow of afternoon was hot on the porches overlooking the ocean.

"Terry, it's marvelous." She was looking up at the ceiling, then at him. "I feel like I'm a queen."

He kissed her hand, then nodded at the two waiting staff. "Our rooms?"

They were ushered through a tantalizing set of hallways and staircases to the top floors, where three separate bedroom suites were situated, double doors swung wide open, and beds covered in white silk and down.

Grace walked into the far one, dropping her purse on the bureau and going straight to the windows. He watched her, then shot a dismissive look at the staff before strolling behind, meeting her at the balcony.

"Like it?"

"It's amazing. I'm at a loss for words," she stepped back to him and wound an arm around his waist, resting her head on his chest. He couldn't help but settle into the cuddle, and they stood like that for a while before he glanced down at her, realizing she had not slept at all on the plane.

"Why don't you take a rest, Grace," he suggested. "We've got an engagement tonight."

"For work?"

"I'm afraid so."

She inhaled deeply, suppressing a yawn. "I had better take a little break, then. Don't want to fall asleep at the party."

Slowly relinquishing her hold on him, she stepped out of her shoes and laid down on top of the plush covers. Terry turned back to the view, leaning against the balustrade. So, now began the second half of his operations on the Bank casino. Toulour better deliver, or he'd wind up the fool. Everything must be carefully planned and watched. Ocean's men could not know that they were being spied upon; he had warned them that he'd be looking into the operation, but he didn't trust Danny to be up front with him.

Speaking of operations, he had better look into his office here on the premises. Certainly there would be people to check in with, others to call, messages to view.

Glancing at Grace, he saw she was already breathing deeply. Going to her side, he stared down at her. She looked oddly young in her sleep, and he was hit with a jolt at how desperately he cared for her, how afraid she made him feel. She was a weak spot, and Terry Benedict was not used to feeling weak anywhere. Her lashes fluttered slightly, as if dreaming, and he bent down, softly kissing her lips before moving off. He would stand there for hours looking at her. There was work to do.

At some point during her nap, Grace felt the bed shift enough to rouse her slightly. It was so good to sleep, but she woke feeling slightly disconcerted. His scent was there, cigars and aftershave, and she opened her eyes to slits.

"Terry?"

"Yes, it's me," it was his voice, low, soothing, husky. Her body was pulled to his, and instinctively she curled next to him. There was the crinkle of his starched shirt, the slightly rough texture of his chin as he leaned his cheek next to hers for a brief kiss, and then she had fallen back into sleep.

Dusk was approaching fast. Lights close to the harbor below were coming out, and there were dozens of small crafts and yachts pulling in. Terry stood on the balcony of Grace's room, thoughtfully smoking a cigar.

He'd done some quick work, then had come back to check on her. Somehow, in a house, he was more worried about her, scared he'd lose her in all the rooms. That was one good thing about the security cameras in Vegas, at least. As she laid there, looking very peaceful and innocent, he'd been overcome with the need to be close to her, and had climbed next to her, feeling boyish and a little foolish stripping out of his jacket, tie and vest, and kicking off his shoes to do so. But once he was there, he'd been able to pull her close; hearing her call his name in her half sleep had been worth it. Sleep had come none too quick; her back and buttocks pressed against his stomach and groin had been very distracting, but he must have dozed for a while.

Awaking, he had been disinclined to leave her alone, and had gone on the balcony to light one of his Cubans, enjoying a moment of silence and solitude.

A soft sigh inside the room made him turn and peer into the gloom. Grace had woken, and she was getting up out of bed, padding toward him, her butter yellow dress now looking almost white in the deep sunset.

"Were you sleeping with me?"

"Next to you," he amended. "Do you mind?"

"Not in the slightest," she placed her hands on the cool marble railing and looked out. "It's so otherworldly here."

They were quiet. He was grateful she was not an overly chatty woman, and liked that their long silences were comfortable, almost sensual.

"So, where to tonight?"

"I've got a Frenchman to do business with, Francois Toulour. He's having a cocktail reception tonight, and we're to go."

"I'm afraid my French is quite rusty," she sighed ruefully, and he looked at her, surprised she even knew some. Seeing his glance, she shrugged offhandedly, "When you're in customer service, you meet a lot of people. I've had to learn snippets of at least a dozen languages to make an impression on a client."

He shook his head, smiling to himself. They were more alike than anyone would think, that was certain.

"What shall I wear? I want to do right by you."

Normally Terry wouldn't give a damn what any woman on his arm was wearing, provided she looked smashing, but as he took especial pains about Grace's wardrobe and her status as his official girlfriend, he cocked his head thoughtfully, trying to remember all the frocks that he'd bought her.

"That white short one, with all the fluffs on it," he specified. It felt good to be in control, even of something so simple. She nodded, pleased and laughing a little at his inarticulate description of the gown.

"I love that one. I'm glad I'll get to wear it." She moved back into the room, looking at the suitcase that had been already brought up some time ago by staff. "When do we go?"

He brought in the stub of the cigar and placed it in one of the crystal trays on the sideboard.

"After dinner."

She glanced over her shoulder. "And where is dinner?"

He shrugged, "Anywhere we like, though I was thinking something private on the veranda, just the two of us."

He watched her pause, and lay a hand on the zipper of her suitcase, and then turned around and came back toward him.

"You really mean for us to spend the entire time together," he saw excitement in her face, and leaned in to peck her forehead.

"I do. Now, come here and watch the sunset first. I hear they are very beautiful." He drew her back to the balcony, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his head against hers.

The lights went from deep gold to orange, then faded to a dusky bruised purple.

"Grace," he whispered in her ear, unable to keep from kissing her any longer. She turned in his arms, and tiptoed up to him.

She seemed to innately know what raised the fire in his blood, and he relished it; her taste, the light touch of her fingers in his hair, then along his chest. Before he knew what she was about, she'd undone several of the first few buttons on his shirt, pulling it back from his shoulders so she could touch his bare skin. He felt himself shudder at her touch, a shiver hit him hard, and suddenly he was kissing her hungrily, grabbing her waist, her ass, then alternately squeezing her close.

When they had finally finished the long embrace, he pulled back only slightly, looking at her face, which was now almost completely in shadow. Sighing, he thought of the time, and brushed back her hair.

"We should go to eat. Dinner's always a long affair here, and we need to get to Toulour's soon enough."

"Must we?"

He swung back, surprised at the longing he heard in her voice, smiling at the petulance brought on by unrequited desire. Leaning down, he kissed her quickly and soundly. "I share your sentiments, my dear. But yes, we must."

She nodded, and he turned to go, hearing her close the balcony and turn on lights behind him. It was only after he got into his own suite and began pulling on his white linen suit that he thought about what he had said. He did not usually use endearments – in fact, he never did. Shaking his head, he pushed down the worry that Grace would remake him completely, that sooner or later, Terry Benedict would not be the hard lining asshole he needed to be.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

OK, Toulour's lines are best read if you're really thinking about his accent and how he talks in the films. I always try to imagine him actually talking when I write his lines... :)

They arrived at Toulour's party at ten, her stomach was still adjusting to the delicious meal they'd shared on the portico overlooking the bay. The weather was sweetly cool, she smelled sweet pea, pine and salt in the air. Terry had poured them champagne and then they'd ended up talking about Greek naval history, of all things, brought on by the large yachts now parked below them. He'd been surprisingly learned, and she found her breadth of knowledge on history stumped when they'd come to an impasse on who had ultimately won the Persian-Greco war and why.

They'd taken their time over dessert; Terry spending more time holding her hand than holding the spoon, and in the end she had laughingly fed him the samples of gelato until he protested that his already small sweet tooth was overpowered.

Now they were dressed and at the door of one of the most lavish mansions she'd ever seen. Old money was dripping in every corner, from the inlaid marble floors and columns to the Old Masters on the walls. She was afraid to touch anything, and was grateful that they were led outside to the manicured gardens.

Suddenly, around them, were dozens of partying guests; French, Italian and English were tossed about commonly, everyone seemed to be bilingual. Grace felt instinctively out of her element. Normally she was at the back of these parties, not in the center of them. Glancing at Terry, who had her elbow firmly in his grasp, his eyes darting about carefully, probably looking for their host, she saw he looked tense and almost angry. Perhaps he hated being in the thick of things just as much as she did.

"This way," he suddenly steered them through, past the bar, where most of the action was occurring, and toward a muddle of dancing young people, who Grace was quite sure were in the midst of taking a dose of ecstasy. Around them were crisp white couches and chairs, and sitting among a group of desperately young girls wearing far too many sequins for their age, sat a languid faced gentleman wearing expensive Italian clothes and smoking a thin cigarette.

"Toulour."

"Ah, Terry Benedict. You've come to join us at last, yes?" The man stood, his tall thin frame coming nose to nose with Terry, and Grace instinctively took a step back. The two men faced each other, staring tightly, and she sensed that there was a history here, long, tangled and somewhat illegal. Or surely she was just feeling paranoid. Finally, the Frenchman shook Terry's hand and broke out in a hearty laugh.

"Good to see you, come come, let us have a drink, and you must introduce me to your lovely escort, please." Bending at the waist slightly, Toulour took up Grace's hand. His hand was surprisingly hard, bony, and his hooded eyes stared up at her as he placed a feather light kiss across the top of her fingers. She tried not to shudder, and looked up into Terry's face, which was taut – from jealousy or plain tenseness – she wasn't sure.

"This is Grace," he offered tightly to Toulour, who straightened and beamed at them both before clearing their way to the bar, waving and shouting to many of his cronies.

"Whiskey for you, yes," he was gesturing to the bartenders, who already had a martini in hand for Francois. "And for the lady?"

"She'll have scotch neat." Terry was tersely ordering for her, and in a moment, Grace understood. He was not in control. This entire situation, here in the gardens, put Terry Benedict out of his element, without anything to stand upon, no clout, no name, they were entirely at the whims of their guest, who was coming at her with a tall drink and a small glass of water for her to add to the scotch.

It was no wonder he was angry, she reminded herself. He was unused to this, unamused and disinterested in the recreational drugs, the dancing, the partying.

"Thank you," she said to Toulour, dropping in the few drips of water to her drink and setting the rest on the bar.

"So, tomorrow," he turned to Terry, suddenly brisk. "You have a sailboat, yes? You will come to pick me up, I will be waiting. Tonight is no time to talk business. We are celebrating," he quirked and eyebrow and grinned mischievously. "I have just…acquired…a new piece of art, it is marvelous."

Nodding at them, he was suddenly pulled away by a group of men, eager to have him join them in their gambling.

Instinctively, she touched Terry's sleeve, and he seemed to jerk awake at the pressure on his arm, and turned toward her.

"Shall we?" He motioned toward the house.

"What? We aren't leaving already? I doubt I can swallow the scotch very fast."

"We're going to see this piece of art that Toulour is celebrating."

Suddenly they were walking back up the stairs, and she glanced behind her; the Frenchman's eyes were watching them closely.

Just inside the hallway on the wall was a beautiful Picasso, highlighted with special lighting and gilt frame, and an over abundance of flowers were spread on the narrow table below it.

She felt Terry freeze next to her; he was staring at the painting with narrowed eyes, suddenly a cold, hardened man, and he breathed in once, then turned smartly on his heel back to the party. She had to walk fast to catch up, afraid to touch him in this state, not sure what was wrong. Glancing up at him, she was surprised to see that he looked completely calm, though the line of his mouth had tightened, and his eyes were black.

He curtly ushered her to a couch on the edge of the dancing and sat beside her, watching the young people dart about in their playful colors, hair swirling, bare legs jumping to the music.

They sat there like silent bookends, though the music was far from over powering. Whenever she snuck looks at him, he was staring off to space, absently drinking his whiskey to nothing.

"Another drink, Mr. Benedict?"

It was their host, and Terry immediately stood, looking at Grace, who wordlessly held up her empty glass.

The two left her alone, and went to stand first by the bar, then off to the side. She could tell by Terry's brusque hand motions that he was irritated, and the Frenchman was trying to smoothly placate him. Crossing her legs and leaning back on the furniture, she watched the dancing couples in front of her, their shapes becoming blurred, just like the lines of professionalism and personal had become for her, just like her understanding of him was becoming. It was terrifying and surreal, and shaking her head, Grace stood up, determined to meet a few of the nuveau rich around her.

"It is a good joke, is it not, Mr. Benedict?" Toulour was chuckling at his own genius.

"I'm not interested in your idea of jest," Terry said shortly, wishing he could punch the smirk off the Frenchman's face. "What I want to know is how my Picasso got here without my knowing it's been stolen."

"Oh, but that is the best part of the joke, you see," Francois took another sip of his drink. "I grabbed it a week ago, you have been looking at a replica."

Terry didn't bother to say that he rarely went into the museum anymore, that the last thing he cared about was this particular painting. All it did was bring memories of Tess. What irked him was that once again, someone had gotten through his security at the Bellagio, that Toulour had something that belonged to him.

"Now that the joke is finished for you, you will give it back," Terry demanded.

The Frenchman's eyes went wide. "But I cannot now, you know. All my friends have seen it, and they will expect it to be on display. I could not possibly get rid of it, or…give it back, as you say."

His ego was enormously irritating, and it took Terry's self discipline to keep from pounding his fist on the bar.

"You will not get off so easily," Terry warned. "I don't care about the painting necessarily; you just owe me the millions it's worth."

"Millions?" Toulour scoffed. "A few paltry millions are so cheap, so easy. It is the painting that matters."

"Money is all that matters," he corrected, and picked up Grace's drink from the bar. "You owe me for it, if you want to keep it."

The tempo of music changed. A slow beat came through the speakers, and the mood of the group around them started to change pace as well. Toulour lowered his voice to avoid being overheard.

"Ah, but Mr. Benedict, you forget that you need me, no? It would not do to upset me like this on my night of celebration." Toulour made a fast tsking noise. "I do not think it would be wise of you."

Terry paused, forcing himself to remain aloof from the situation. "Very well, we call it a stalemate." When the Frenchman began to smile again, he cut him off curtly. "For now." The light went out of Toulour's eyes and they once again became shrewd.

"You handle your end of the job, I will let you…keep…the Picasso. You fail me, and you will pay, and pay double."

Always gambling men, the two stared at each other before Terry nodded once and moved off, drinks in hand, to find Grace. It would remain to be seen if Toulour could keep up with Ocean's gang.

She was talking quietly to two young women who looked less like party animals than most, but her eyes were on Terry as he walked toward them. She smiled, a little apprehensively. When he approached, he set down their drinks, realizing he had been somewhat cold towards her since seeing the Picasso. Grace was not Tess. Grace—Grace, he was fairly certain, was falling for him, though as careful as he always was, he wondered where her devotion stemmed. Was it his wealth, his power?

But he held out his hand anyway, murmuring, "Dance with me."

She excused herself quickly from her conversation and took his hand. Deftly, he spun her into the circle of his arms and began to move them slowly, sensually across the dancing space, steering them clear of other couples.

They circled carefully, and he brought her fingers to his lips, tightening his grip so that she was closer, so one of her thighs brushed inside of his and their bodies were flush against each other. After a beat, she put her head on his chest.

"Is everything alright, Terry?"

"It will be," he muttered, still seething deep down about Toulour's breach of the Bellagio security. He'd need to make calls first thing back at the villa.

"Can I do anything?"

He smiled slightly; her futile efforts to help were gentle. "No, Grace. I'm sorry I was so irritable." He did not think about the apology; it slipped out naturally.

Once again, he was grateful she did not pry further, though he couldn't tell if she suspected anything or had other thoughts clattering about her mind. Either way, she dropped the subject and seemed content to dance slowly in his arms.

Through the throngs of people, he saw Toulour gazing at them, his head cocked to one side, looking interested and slightly confused. Terry couldn't help but pull Grace even closer. She was his, and with Grace there would be no negotiations.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

They were back earlier than she would have thought; after their rather sensual dances, Terry had drank quickly and firmly refused another one from their host. She'd taken her cue from him and finished her second scotch soon after him. The drive back was quiet, and she stole glances at him. His shifts in temper were frightening. She knew he was a tough man, a casino owner, and there were probably dark deeds he'd done that she honestly didn't want to know about. Tonight, for the first time, she'd seen a glimpse of that man, the other side of Terry that was kept simmering below the surface, pushed aside for her sake.

She looked over at him, wanting to ask, but knowing instinctively that this was something that she shouldn't touch – at least not yet – she was only his girl, not his wife, nor his longtime lover.

"Grace," he took her hand in the dark, his eyes trained on the twisting road back up to their villa. "Did you have a good time?"

"I did. The girls complimented the dress."

"It looks very good on you."

They were silent again as they pulled into the drive.

He stopped the car; a few lights were left on for them, and yet he didn't move from his seat. She waited, looking at their joined hands.

"You're not alright."

He'd read her perfectly. He was right. She was scared of him now, of what he could become. She knew that he would do nothing to hurt her, and where their fingers were joined she was intimately aroused – the sparks between them were real and undeniable.

Finally meeting his eyes, she shook her head, trying to draw on her professionalism to get her through his probing questions. "I'm fine, just tired."

Letting herself out, she stepped from the car and started up the stairs, acutely aware of Terry's door shutting behind her, then his slow methodical steps behind her.

"Grace." His voice was low; she barely heard him. When she looked down, his eyes were trained on her; in the shadows she couldn't read him. As she paused, he continued to walk up to her, hands in pockets, and suddenly she was overwhelmed with her uncertainty, with her emotions. Spinning, she turned wordlessly back to the villa, but by the time she had reached the foyer, he'd caught up with her, grabbing her arm.

"Grace, stop."

She paused, surprised to hear the strain of worry in his tone. It was the first human sound he'd made since they had arrived at the Frenchman's house.

"You frightened me, Terry," she blurted out, turning halfway away from him. "I—I didn't know what happened…I didn't know you."

"Shhh," he soothed, bringing her close. "It's fine now. I'm fine."

She shook her head. "You were just…so cold. I didn't know what to think."

"Grace," he pulled her tighter, and under his layers she felt the beating of his heart. "It's foolish, it's business. You know how it is. Please, Grace."

Blindly in the gloaming he found her mouth, kissing her anxiously, his hands on her shoulders and hips and despite herself she felt her body respond immediately. His hands were insistent, moving in broad sweeps past her back, stroking her sides, her stomach, as if he was trying to prove devotion and security.

"Signore?"

They broke apart as if on fire; a figure approached from one of the many hallways. It was one of the butlers, no doubt charged with waiting for their arrival.

"What is it?" Terry's voice came harshly.

"Everything is in order, signore," the man bowed out quickly, easily able to access the situation.

But the moment was broke. She sighed. "I'm sorry to be so upset. I really think I'm just tired."

He breathed deeply, then nodded. Silently, they walked upstairs and she paused as he did; they looked at each other, uncertain and unbalanced. They'd never had a quarrel quite like this before.

"Good night Grace," he told her, turning to his rooms, back stiff.

"Good night, darling," she called softly after him, realizing that he was under more stress and pressure than he was letting on, that her distance and fear only fueled the ire in him.

He paused at the doors at her voice, but did not turn around, and at the snap of his knob, she went slowly into her own rooms.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

He never should have brought her to France, he cursed to himself as he stripped down and yanked on his cotton pajamas. It should have been a quick trip, a business trip. He'd been getting carried away, thinking he could bring a woman into his affairs, into the complexities of his life.

Pacing for a moment, he rubbed his forehead, then lit a cigar in agitation. He didn't give a damn what time it was in Vegas, he had calls to make about that bloody Picasso. Picking up his cell, he punched in the private numbers of his head of security.

"Oliver. We have a very serious problem."

"Yes boss?" The man's voice was muddled with the distance.

"My Picasso has been replaced. With a replica. A replica, Oliver. You want to find out how that happened without anyone catching the asshole?"

"But sir. I don't understand. How can you know it's missing?"

"Oliver." His tone implied that no questions would be asked. "Do it. Call me immediately when you figure it out. I expect a full report on Sunday."

"Yes sir."

He hung up the phone, and with that, felt his anger deflate him. He had been uncompromising with Grace. She'd only tried to help without prying, and he'd been distant with her all evening. It was no wonder she withdrew into herself; he knew the instinct well – self preservation, forced emotional detachment. Her professionalism stood her well.

Sighing, he pulled back the covers and switched off the bedside light. He would deal with tomorrow when it came; somehow he'd have to explain to her without exposing too much of his history and plans to come. Clenching his jaw, he admitted that keeping a secret from Grace was difficult, surprisingly so. If only—.

There was a knock on the door, so soft he questioned if he heard it. Before he had a chance to sit up in bed, she'd tried the knob and found it unlocked. In the soft moonlight, he saw her slide open the door slowly.

She was ghostlike; the negligee shimmering as she walked slowly toward him, taking tentative steps.

"Terry?"

He half rose, amazed that he was feeling happy—excited—that she'd come. "Is everything alright?"

She stopped near the side of the bed, twisting one of the lace straps on her shoulders. Even in the night, he thought she was beautiful in that nightgown; it showed her figure, her curves. In spite of himself, he held out a hand. "What is it, Grace?"

"I'm having trouble sleeping," she said softly, and he was glad it was dark enough that she couldn't see the smile that spread across his face.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Come here, then."

She slipped in fluidly next to him; once again her scent overcame him, and he automatically turned to her under the covers. There was something protective about grasping her in bed, about feeling the smooth silk under his fingers, how it slid along her skin. She curled into him, her feet touching his and her stomach under his hand.

"I'm sorry, Terry," her voice was muffled; he had to lean in to hear her. "I should have been more understanding. Please," she turned in his arms. "Please don't be angry with me."

Shocked that she was taking the blame of their argument onto herself, he pulled back.

"Grace," he touched her face, appalled to find her eyelashes wet with tears. "Don't cry, Grace," he bent down and kissed her forehead tenderly, surprised that he felt a twinge of guilt at her tears.

"I'm not meaning to be difficult," she continued. "I'm over it now, I was just taken aback; I'd never seen that…the business side of you."

"I know," he pulled her close, making slow circles on her stomach and hip. "I'm not angry with you Grace, I never was."

No, instead, he knew now, he'd been scared shitless that he'd lost her, somehow, in the process of doing business. When she'd walked away from him on the stairs, he'd almost leapt after her, desperate to hold onto her, to keep her with him, to convince her that all was well.

"Thank God." And then she was turning in his arms, pressing towards him, finding his lips and snaking her arm around his waist. He allowed himself to fall into the bliss of her touch, the sexuality of the silk under his hands. Before he knew it, she was drawing off his nightshirt; she was separated from him by a thin piece of fabric that rubbed deliciously cool against his chest. Clutching her tight, he heard himself gasping her name,

"Grace, Grace!"

The negligee slipped from her shoulders, and suddenly his hands were filled with her breasts; they were heavy and warm, and she arched back as he ran his fingers along the curves of them, tracing the nipples before trailing up along her neck and into her hair.

"Terry—my darling!" she breathed, and he was caught again into the web of his desire for her, of his growing attachment. How could he have thought to give this up, to purposely get rid of her to save himself the emotional irritation? To hear her call him by name…

He stopped thinking as she ran her fingers and nails along his back, across his shoulders, then into his hair and along his face. They kissed deeply, languidly, and he pulled her close again and again, relishing the feel of her breasts against him, overcome with strange relief. That some part of her had accepted him, accepted his stilted answers, and she had still come to him, willingly…he was filled with an unexplained emotion, and broke their kiss to fold her into his body. She was shuddering with the power of their embraces, and he stroked her hair, suddenly realizing that he did not want their first time to be now, tonight. She was able to let him be, he would repay her understanding.

"Not yet, not yet," he tried to calm his voice and mask his lust. She twisted in his arms, gaining control, nodding dumbly.

"I want it to be romantic," he confided, touching the side of her face and brushing her lips with a thumb. "Not like this."

"You mean, you don't want the first time we make love to be make up sex." She spoke softly and with her rather off color comment, he knew his Grace was back. Laughing quietly, he agreed.

"Would you like me to leave?"

"No. Absolutely not," he gripped her close. "You have to stay. It's far too late to be walking back to your bedroom."

She gave a quiet giggle, then settled back into his arms. "I thought as much."

The next morning came bright and clear. Terry woke slowly, the sheets cool around his bare chest. Last night had become a blurry memory; had he almost ravished Grace here in this bed?

Turning, he saw her laying on her side, still sleeping. In the morning glow, her skin looked like smooth, tawny colored marble. Slowly, he ran a hand down her hip, and purposefully ignoring his morning arousal, leaned in for a kiss.

That woke her, but when he moved away to give her space, she turned, either unabashed about her partial nudity, or a moment of forgetfulness, and her sleepfilled eyes met his with morning laziness. Her breasts were there, suddenly half exposed and he feasted on the sight of them.

Grace woke more, and with a little jump pulled the covers to her shoulders. Shaking his head, he peeled the layer back, so she laid bare from the waist up.

"You can't tease a guy like that," he chastised lightly, and she gave a small laugh.

He trailed his hand up the flat of her stomach to the rounded globes of her breasts, infinitely interested in every curve and texture. Her skin was not the taunt flesh of young girls or women in the blush of their 20's, but it was the very ripeness of her age that caused him to feel that she could match him, somehow. He couldn't get enough of touching her, of hearing her soft moans as he caressed her.

She was watching him with apprehension mixed with the pleasure his touch brought, and finally she said, "I'm glad you like them in the light too."

He brought his head down to rest on her chest, purposefully pinning her, allowing himself the luxury of kissing her breastbone, feeling the softness of her breasts beneath his lips. "How could I not?" he asked philosophically. "Every part of my Grace is beautiful."


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

"Ready for a day on the boat?"

His question roused her; they'd been lying idly together for what felt like mere minutes, but what must have been much longer. She'd been enjoying the weight of his head, the smoothness of his hair under her fingers.

"Of course. I brought a suit."

He lifted his head up, looking at her. In a state of dishevelment, he no longer looked like a stiff, dangerous businessman, and she was amazed that she'd been so afraid of him the night before.

It'd taken just a few seconds for her to relent once she had entered her bedroom alone last night. She should have stopped asking questions, should have just let it be; his affairs were not her affair. This trip was, after all, business. It didn't have to be necessarily easy business. Terry was usually in such control, to see any type of emotion from him had been disconcerting and slightly terrifying. But after it all…she knew now that she needed him. She loved him.

"Is it a sexy little bikini?" he was asking her, and she looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

"Really, Terry. I'm in my thirties. Do you really think I'm able to pull off something a teenager wears?" She tried not to think about her worry of him seeing her nearly naked, of the cellulite on her back thighs there for his viewing.

A slow grin started across his face. "I don't know, I haven't seen." He pounced on her neck, playfully kissing, but his hands moving much more seriously, first on her breasts, then tugging at her nightgown with slow inching pulls. As he rounded her thigh, she felt herself shuddering in his arms, eagerly and yet nervously waiting his reaction to her own body. It'd been years since she'd been in bed with a man; after Paul she'd never made time to get remotely close enough to another so that they'd end up in bed. Now, with Terry, she was giving it all away again without a doubt, without a look back.

Now his hand was on her hip, curving around to grab her bare buttocks, and his jerk of surprise came more in his eyes than his body.

"Nothing underneath?" his voice was husky, deep in her ear, and innately she knew he approved of her rather risqué choice. Desire was rushing through her; she was astonished at how quickly he could rouse her lust.

"I—," she didn't get a chance to finish a sly comment because he'd captured her mouth again, pressing her against the pillows and shifting halfway onto her so that she was overwhelmed with the warmth of his body, the soft brush of his chest hair against her bare breasts, the headiness of his arousal on her thigh, separated only from her by the thin cotton of his pajamas.

"Do you ache for me?" he was whispering, and she nodded, her eyes closed, her arms pulling him closer, tighter.

"Signore? It is the time you requested, Signore. The boat is ready."

There was a knock on the door and they both stopped moving.

"Very good!" Terry barked, then slumped back on top of her, swearing under his breath about over attentive staff. Grace was disappointed that their moment had once again been stalled, but brought her hands to his face to kiss him softly.

"I know we have to go and get the Frenchman on the yacht, Terry."

He nodded, slowly shifting into business mode in front of her very eyes. Rolling away from her, he reached for his watch and cell phone. She stepped out of bed carefully, demurely covering herself as she did so.

"What time should I be ready?"

His glance was quick, apologetic. "Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?" He glanced at the rumpled bed. "I had not planned to sleep so long this morning."

"Sure," her easy response made him raise is eyebrows in disbelief, and she stopped at the door with an explanation. "I run events, Terry. Sometimes I'm lucky to have five minutes in a public bathroom or a car to change."

She left him, shaking his head and chuckling with the visual, and went quickly to her rooms. The soft silk of the negligee swished along her legs, and she felt herself warm with the remembrances of his touches.

She met him in the foyer of the house, his white linen pants and navy polo were right out of a photograph of sailing clothes, but it was the soft white sweater draped around his shoulders that made him look truly preppy. If it weren't for the cigar in his fingers, he would look exactly like a rich Ivy League drop out.

He turned at the sound of her coming down the stairs, and she watched him take a slow look at her. She'd put on white shorts and shoes that made her legs look longer - she wished she still had the legs of her youth, but at least she still worked at keeping her body somewhat in shape. A gauzy white shirt hid her shoulders from the sun, and she swung a straw tote at her side.

"Ready," she said breezily.

He nodded. As they walked out of the villa, back down the stairs to the waiting car, he surprisingly took her hand for a brief moment, and in that very public display of his affection, Grace found herself feeling hopeful for the first time; perhaps Terry was also falling for her.

Squeezing her fingers slightly as they separated to get in, she smiled at him while they drove off towards the water.

"So, what should we do today on the boat?"

"Swim. Relax. Sleep," he shot her a devilish grin. She noticed he failed to mention work, but knowing that Toulour would also be on the boat made her nervous. She hoped Terry did not suddenly close up again.

The mid morning light was bright and clean on the French waters, and they were approached by a rather elderly Frenchman who bobbed his head at her and began giving low comments to Terry, who was moving quickly along the pier. She looked at the sparkling white sailboat. The gleaming wooden deck was swept clean, with beautiful linen padding on seats, and she saw glittering champagne bottles on ice near the wheel.

"Grace," he was already on board, holding a hand out to her, which she took and stepped lightly onto the deck.

There were two other strapping young men that appeared from below, and they began to unleash the boat from its holding on the pier, pushing off smoothly.

She turned in wonder to look at Terry. "Is this yours?"

"Not yet," he told her, holding the remaining stub of his morning cigar between his fingers. He looked dashing in the light; his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. She pulled off the shirt, her white swim suit hugged her waist and breasts firmly. The sun beat down warmly on her shoulders though the breeze of the sailing was slightly cool with morning.

Her fingers gripped the railing as they hit full water; she felt her hair whip behind her, and she shook her head, feeling the familiar freedom that came from being off land. A hand came on either side of hers, and she felt the warmth of Terry's chest on her back. He was staring out at the water too; they stood like that for a while, watching the shoreline float past them.

"Champagne?" he murmured in her ear, and she nodded wordlessly, then sank to one of the cushioned beds on the deck as he fetched them a bottle.

"What do you think of the boat, Grace?"

She took the offered glass of almost clear champagne, sipping it with pleasure. Leaning back, she wondered if he was again asking for her opinion. It happened rarely – she felt honored when he did.

"It's very beautiful. Rather sexy," she smiled at him as he reclined opposite her. "Do you like to sail often back home?"

"No," he said. "But this would be an excuse to get away every once in a while."

She held her tongue at this; why buy a boat in a far off country to only use it once or twice a year? She kept forgetting he had the money to burn. And most importantly, not her place to tell him how to use it.

"Then you should do it. Everyone needs to relax a little off the job."

They chatted lightly about sailing around the world, how seeing the Indian Ocean from a sailboat would be interesting; how could one stem off pirates in such a vessel?

In the lull of conversation, she stood, stripped off her shorts and picked up a book. She tried to be nonchalant about it, inwardly extremely self conscious about her figure - far from perfect or youthful. Terry had leaned back, a newspaper in hand and his shirt off. Even though he was already dark skinned, he looked tanner, in his element, the dark hairs on his chest smooth and flat against his belly. She blushed, thinking about their moments in bed, wondering what it would feel like to be completely fulfilled with him, to feel his naked body against hers, touching her intimately.

"Grace, what's a five letter word that has to do with a wedding that starts with a 'v'?"

He broke into her thoughts.

She cocked her head to the side, then slid across to look over his paper. "Venue."

"Venue?"

Nodding, she rubbed her shoulders. It was getting rather hot. He put down the crossword puzzle, which, she had to admit, she was surprised he was doing – she would have thought he'd have tackled the news itself.

"Getting warm?"

"A bit."

He half turned and spoke briefly in French to the man at the helm. There was a bit of activity, and suddenly they were turning off toward the shore, then dropping anchor. She lifted her sunglasses.

"This doesn't look like Toulour's area."

"It's not, but a good safe place to swim, if you'd like to cool off."

Grace smiled to herself. She looked down into the crystal water, the cool blue depths were not so bad here; she saw rocks below, then white sand.

Slipping off her shoes, she stepped to the edge and dove in.

The water was a bit cool, but she quickly adjusted, slipping in and out of the water with a few expert strokes. The weightlessness of water made her feel sexy again.

Glancing up at the deck, she saw Terry had stood, watching her.

"Come in," she called, but he shook his head. Not wanting to taunt him further; perhaps he did not swim, nor know how, she dove back under the surface, swimming a bit away from the boat before spinning back. She saw him continuing to watch her, and with that, she felt protected, safe, swimming alone in the big waters.

After a few more minutes, she went back to the side of the boat, and Terry and another of the crew hands reached to help her up, to hand her a luxurious white towel before they pulled up the anchor and cast off.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Grace looked like a bronze goddess in the water; her white suit a distinct contrast to her skin, which got darker every hour. With her hair slicked back, wet, and the droplets streaming down her legs and arms, he'd found himself once again desiring her. If he did not have business to manage, he would have taken her down into the hold and finally made love to her.

As they pushed off back on track, he watched her slip into her seat, letting the sun dry her skin and hair. If Terry wanted to be honest with himself, he would take note of the fact that her skin was not as smooth as the young women of Vegas, that there were age spots on her shoulders, and the flesh on her back thighs sagged slightly.

But then again, he knew he had a bit of a stomach, and didn't have the toned chest and arms that he liked to pretend he did.

Grace looked peaceful, and smiled at him; he knew she was thanking him silently for the swim. Her book looked studious; it was a non-fiction of sorts about a turn of the century artist. And he stopped the internal criticisms of himself and her - in the end, nothing affected the way he felt with her.

"We'll be at Toulour's soon," he mentioned to her. She nodded, then flipped around, so her head was next to his, her back exposed to the sun.

"I'll leave you alone when he's on board," she said matter-of-factly. "So may I please have a kiss now before we get there?"

He looked down at her, where the sun was dusting her face with more freckles and small faint sunspots; with her face devoid of most cosmetics she looked fresh and somehow...younger. Leaning in, he kissed her slowly, deliciously. She tasted like champagne and salt.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Toulour was lounging on some exotic looking furniture at the edge of his villa property; she saw him, and saw the two beautiful girls on either side of him. Grace sighed to herself. She missed her friends in Boston, who were all regular, normal, not supermodels who towered over her, and who not were thin, young things. While she didn't think Terry was interested in such types, she couldn't help but feel physically inadequate.

"Hello, hello, Mr. Benedict," Toulour was leaping on board, then holding both hands out for the girls. "This is Genevieve and Viviane."

"Francois," Terry shook the Frenchman's hand briefly, then nodded to the girls. He'd put his shirt back on, and the fabric was stretched across his broad shoulders; he looked more in control and powerful. Grace watched him walk across the deck, his heavy swagger looked strong, and she found herself filled with happiness. Regardless of the type of business he was doing here, she was glad she was with him. Perhaps her presence gave him some sort of comfort; she could only hope.

"This is Grace, girls," Toulour was introducing them, and the two dipped their heads in greeting.

"Bonjour," she said to them, smiling, hating that she had to look up to meet their faces. "Comment faites-vous?"

"Tres bien, merci," Genevieve, the blond, answered. They were both wearing skimpy bikinis, their breasts half exposed in the French fashion.

"Vous etes la fille de Monsignor Benedict?" the black haired beauty, Viviane, asked curiously.

Grace's French hardly extended that far, though she caught Terry's name, and figured it was best to just smile and nod.

The girls settled back, looking impressed, and took the glasses of champagne that were offered to them by one of the deck hands.

"Cin cin," Grace said, remembering the phrase said at one of the weddings she'd done; the bride had been French, and there had been three tables of non-English speaking relations to deal with.

The girls grinned at her, and drank.

"Your French is said beautifully," Genevieve remarked in cultured English. Relieved that they'd switched languages, Grace waved off the compliment.

"I may have the accent down, but my vocabulary is certainly quite poor," she said lightly, but found herself pleased that she had at least gotten a compliment so soon.

"We will help," Viviane offered. "But first you must tell us about your man. Francois was surprised last night, that Mr. Benedict should bring a woman with him."

Grace was happy to hear it; it confirmed what she hoped, that Terry was like her. No time for love affairs, no time to waste on brief romances. That her presence was unusual and special. But she did not want to divulge too much to these new strangers, and tried to answer vaguely.

"Well, he's very bon regarder," she said. "Very handsome and very kind to me."

"Yes? He buys you baubles and diamonds," Genevieve asked curiously, and Grace saw that she said so while flashing her hand, where a beautiful sapphire sparkled.

Remembering the bracelet and the argument that had come soon after, Grace gave a little laugh.

"Yes, sometimes. And Francois gave you that?" Deftly and professionally turning the conversation to the girls, they both leaned in, eager to list off the jewelry they'd been given first by Toulour, and then by previous boyfriends.

Grace smiled, nodded, asking for words in French, and complimenting them on their beauty. Sometimes they would slip into their own language, but before long would courteously move back into English. She was grateful that Toulour had not brought on board the overly haughty type of French girls.

A while later, she looked up from where the three of them were sunning themselves in the bow of the boat; laying out like three sardines toasting. Terry and Toulour were talking in the stern; they'd been there for hours.

"Would you girls like more champagne?" she asked, and when they answered in the positive, she got up and went back to fetch another bottle. It was strange to realize that on this boat, in this situation, she was the hostess.

As she moved past the men, she slid a hand on Terry's shoulder, squeezing lightly. It felt good to touch him. Unexpectedly, he grabbed her fingers, holding them and kissing them while Toulour watched.

"How are the girls, Grace?" he asked, keeping her close. She stood, champagne in hand, and gave a smile at Francois.

"They're very kind. They have been teaching me more French; it's quite helpful."

"Very nice, very good," Toulour nodded.

"We're heading home," Terry informed her, then let go of her hand. She walked back to the bow, and anticipation spread through her body. Tonight, she knew, there would be no holding back.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Turning to Toulour, Terry trained his eyes on the Frenchman. He didn't trust him; never could. But money would do the trick to give cushion, and Francois was bored and wanted a challenge. Besides, he had a personal dislike for Ocean's gang, which was exactly why Terry had contacted him; this would work in his favor, and be additional insurance.

"We have a deal?"

"Yes," Francois leaned back. They'd gone over the plan in detail. "So, you will deposit a quarter of the money in my accounts on Monday, and I will arrive the next day to begin."

"And you will report to me weekly. I want to know what they're doing and when, and if anything deviates from their plan, you will call me immediately."

"Of course, of course," Francois said smoothly. There was a pause, then he asked curiously. "What will you do with the diamonds, Mr. Benedict? Give them to your woman?"

"Grace wouldn't care for them," Terry heard himself say automatically, then cursed himself for being so honest. "I just want Bank's diamonds cut away from him. You can have some of them for your two ladies," he jerked his chin at the front of the boat. "But remember, if you fail me at this, you owe me double for that Picasso."

"Yes, yes," Francois waved a hand dismissively. "But what about if Bank finds out that I was part of his plan to take the diamonds, eh? I do not want trouble from him, he does not follow the rules."

"Bank won't find out who financed the drill, he won't know where to start looking," Terry said firmly, but with Toulour's question, he felt a shred of doubt find its way into his mind. If Willy Bank ever did get hold of one of Ocean's gang, if it should ever get out that he had been involved, then there would be problems to smooth over - he'd have to start strategizing immediately.

There was a ring on his cell phone. Dismissing himself, Terry stood and walked away from the Frenchman. It was Charles, his casino manager.

"Sir. We've located the breach."

"Good." Terry glanced at Toulour, who had stood and was wandering to the women at the bow. "What happened?"

"Well, sir, it looks like there was a system override based on a…" Charles went on, briefly outlining where Francois had used sophisticated lasers to disrupt the sensors on the painting, how he had kept the security cameras from seeing the switch. Terry bit back an angry growl, determined not to get into a sour mood. What was done was done; he and Toulour had made a deal on this.

"Charles. Will this happen again?" he interrupted shortly.

"No sir. We're working on new precautions. Oliver will have it in a report for you tomorrow to approve."

He snapped the cell shut, then took some quiet breaths to shove down his anger before going back to his seat. Through the shade of his sunglasses, he gazed at the three women sunning themselves on the deck. The two models were, he had to admit, very beautiful. They were long, thin and had perfectly arranged features, like delicate pixies, and their small suits left little to the imagination.

Next to them, Grace was petite, curvier, and the sunspots that were speckled across her shoulders made her look older. The taunt swim suit caught the swell of her breasts; under the fabric he saw the outlines of her nipples, the cave of her belly. The tanning had smoothed her skin; the traces of cellulite were nearly gone. He thought of last night, before their fight, how they'd laughed and sparred about naval history, how they had sat in companionable silence on the boat in the morning. It was everything about her; her wit, her charm, her appreciation for all things that drew him to her; the fact that she was a very pretty woman was a bonus.

He lit another cigar, puffing thoughtfully, his thoughts switching between the issues with the casino, the Bank job, and Ocean's gang and to how she had felt in his arms that morning.

They were back at Toulour's villa soon enough, and they parted ways with a nod of their heads, a silent understanding instead of a handshake. They were ready come Monday to begin business together.

He watched Grace kiss the two girls good-bye on their cheeks in the European fashion.

"Au revoir," she was saying, her accent rich. "Bon vous rencontrer."

"Enchanter," Toulour bent over her hand before deftly jumping onto dry land.

Terry went to stand next to her as she stood by the railing, watching the three figures make their way through the gardens up to Francois' portico.

She sighed happily, and turned to look at him. "Now what?"

"Whatever you like," he said, wondering himself what to do now that business was finished. He'd purposely planned to stay the extra night because she was with him; normally he would have flown home immediately.

"Well, is the villa near a French town of any kind?"

"We will ask the staff. What do you want?"

She gave a little laugh. "I'm sure it sounds very silly to you, but I've missed cooking, and I saw that divine kitchen in the villa. If—if you don't mind, I'd like to see a some of the culture, try my new French verbs, and do a little cooking for you tonight."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I'll have one of the men drive us in to a market."

"You'll come along?" she asked delightedly.

Absently he reached out and brushed back her hair. "I said we'd be together the whole time, Grace. I meant it."

She leaned in for a kiss, and then settled against his side, her arm around his waist. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to focus on this moment, to stop scheming about the Bank job; there'd be time enough for that later.

He met her on the stairs on their way to the market. She had slipped out of her suit and into a white skirt and shirt that accented her arms and calves. Her hair had been pulled loosely into a chignon at the nape of her neck and she'd kept her face free of make-up, but what he thought was most endearing was the wide brimmed white hat she wore. Under it, her eyes looked more bright and big, and he couldn't help smiling.

"You'll fit right in, madam," he took her elbow and ushered her down to the car, where one of the men sat waiting, the engine idling.

When they got in the car, she surprised him by pulling out a short list of food, explaining sheepishly that she'd had to write down the French equivalent for each word. He was enchanted by her eagerness to try this new experience, her excitement of the adventure. Placing a hand on her knee, he looked out the window, thinking with amazement that he'd have never thought he'd be doing this – going to a market in France. It was almost ludicrous, the simplicity of it. If only Ocean could see him now, he thought to himself. They'd think he was up to something, it was so out of character.

When they arrived, the sun had started to simmer into the warm yellowy gold of late afternoon, but the street hawkers were still there, and townspeople still crowded the square. Their driver dropped them off, then moved to a side street for parking. Grace got out, her empty straw tote in hand, the list in the other, and he followed her, a cigar between his fingers, watching her move hesitantly to the first vegetable stand.

He strolled aimlessly, keeping one eye on her. Picking up a melon, he weighed it inexpertly before setting it back, then stopped to contemplate the fish sitting on melting ice. There was a line of elderly gentlemen sitting in a row next to the fruit stands, and he nodded at them briefly, catching snippets of their conversation, which titled mainly on the weather, until he heard mention of "la beaute americaine." Suddenly becoming very interested in a collection of oranges, he listened in, growing more proudly possessive with each comment they made about Grace, from the way she walked, to the color of her skin and hair, to the way she laughed with the butcher. They gossiped about their own love affairs – real or imaginary – with other American women, and then one of them mentioned how "grossier et libre" most American women were.

"Faire attention que vous dites," Terry suddenly mentioned to them, and their heads all snapped up in unison at his perfect French. They were too old to be embarrassed or sheepish, and instead leapt upon his intrusion.

"Elle est le votre?" one of them asked, unabashed in his lewd wriggling of eyebrows.

"Yes, she's mine," he responded in kind, but without menace. "And yes, she's very beautiful. Une vraie dame."

The eldest one turned to stare again at Grace. "Bien sur. She does well with her bit of French too. See."

He nodded at her, and Terry turned to watch one of the baker's girls smiling warmly at Grace, who must have been trying to compliment them on their breads, because now the baker himself was coming over.

"Elle est parfaite," he heard himself say quietly, and left the men as he went to her side, offering to carry her now heavy tote of food.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Nearly. Macaroons, s'il vous plait," she ordered, now more confident with her French. The baker beamed at her, and shouted over his shoulder. Quickly one of the girls came scurrying out with a box fresh from the ice chest. Grace smiled and thanked him, handing over the Euros quickly, then turning to Terry.

"All set," she said, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed with the excitement of the afternoon.

As they walked back to the car, she asked casually, "I saw you talking to those fascinating old characters. Keeping up with your French?"

"Yes," he said, helping her into the backseat before coming around and getting in himself. "They're regular old things. I think every country has them."

She laughed. "I agree. Think that'll ever be you?"

"I certainly hope not. I'll never get old," he stated, half serious.

"Probably not," she said, then pulled out her shopping list again. "I realize I should have asked you; do you like lamb and mussels?"

He fixed them their drinks as Grace went straight to the kitchen. When he strolled back in, one of the older French hired help was tying a fanciful apron around Grace's white skirt and shirt, chatting seamlessly. He was fairly certain Grace could only grasp half of what she was saying, but he listened shamelessly, bemused.

"And the monsignor has never had a woman here, I would not have expected it. Here, let me tie it. You are a good fit for him, he needs a little domesticity, and of course you cooking for him is the right touch, it is fitting. Do you need help with the mussels, my dear?"

Now the woman was unwrapping Grace's purchases, instinctively getting the pots and pans out. When Terry cleared his throat, she looked up, then nodded shortly and disappeared from the kitchen. Grace looked at him with a small smirk.

"I see you've got a way with the staff."

"They know my style. I prefer to be alone without them buzzing around."

"You must come here often."

"Once or twice," he dismissed. In reality, he had been here three times, but he knew his staff in Vegas prepped the French one perfectly on his preferences.

"So you prefer solitude," she was constantly moving, turning on the oven and starting water to boil.

"Usually." He watched her, leaning back against the cabinets, sipping the whiskey and finding himself feeling stupidly useless as she cleaned the French cut lamb. As she got out knives and washed the vegetables, he walked over casually and slid the paring knife from her hand. "Let me."

She gave him a warm smile, then walked to the pantry to start pulling out dishes. "Did your business go well today?"

Without meaning to stop, his knife paused, and a tenseness dropped into his shoulders. This was something that he could not tell Grace, nor even discuss lightly with her.

"Yes, it did," his eyes were on her as she folded two napkins.

"I'm glad," was all she said simply, then put out wine glasses before looking up at him. "I was thinking we should import some Chateau neuf d Pape for the gala. French wine just can't be compared to anything else."

Terry stared at her from hooded eyes. He wanted to believe that she would drop her question so easily, that she would understand that his business was his alone. But what woman wasn't nosy?

"I agree. Put in an order immediately."

"There's also a fabulous champagne that was done by monks, a Saint Hilaire or something," she said, bending over the boiling water and adding salt before popping in the mussels. The oven timer beeped and she opened it up and put in the lamb. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up slicing a finger watching her. Concentrating on chopping the carrots with firm heavy strokes, he felt the anxiety trickle out of him. Maybe she really was that discreet, that understanding about privacy.

"Whatever you think is best, I trust your judgment," he said, rejoining the conversation. "However, I was always under the impression that champagne was a complete accident in Champagne itself."

They began a lively debate about the origins of the drink, which then moved into a strange discussion about the mystics of the French mountains that carried them over dinner. Terry knew the food was good not only because Grace fixed it, but because he'd eaten very little all day. Still, he praised it as best he could, and she smiled with pleasure.

"Come," he took a bottle of bubbly from the refrigerator. "Leave the dishes. That's what I pay the staff for."

She untied the apron, and followed him out. The sunset had passed, but the color of the sky was still dusty rose and peach, casting a strange glow over the water below. Terry opened the champagne, then looked at her thoughtfully. It was time to stop thinking so much, to enjoy his time with her.

"Pour the champagne, Grace. I'll be right back."

He went inside, finding one of the staff making their way to the kitchen. By the time he'd made it back to the patio, the vintage French music was filtering out into the cooling air.


	42. Chapter 42 finally they make love! :

Chapter 42

She heard him step back out, and turned to look over her shoulder at him. In the evening light, his white linen pants and loose white shirt looked iridescent and his skin looked darker than usual from the day in the sun. He was looking at her intently, and she smiled at him, offering him the other glass of champagne.

"Thank you for dinner," he said, coming to stand next to her.

"I'm glad you liked it," she replied off-hand, but happy nonetheless. "And I like the music," she bobbed her head at the strumming ballad.

He was still looking at her, his dark eyes trained on hers. Wordlessly, he took away her glass and set them down before asking lowly, "Dance with me?"

Feeling a little foolish, thinking that if any of the staff glanced out, they'd be dancing alone on the patio to quiet old fashioned French tunes, she smiled anyway, taking his hand and allowing herself to be drawn into his arms.

He danced very well, and turned her around slowly, their bodies melting close together as the songs went on unceasingly. She felt him drop his head so that it was next to hers, his cheek brushing against hers, his lips sometimes finding her neck, her ear. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to relax against him, allowing herself to imagine that this would last always, that she'd have a home again and an end to the loneliness.

"The stars are coming out," he whispered to her, and brought their dance to an end; she turned outward to look up but he kept his hands around her waist in a secure embrace.

Unexpectedly, Grace felt emotion tugging at her throat and pressing against her eyes. This bliss and happiness was so unexpected in her life; she'd given up hope of feeling safe again, protected and cared for – just like she'd given up hope of children. Regardless of the fact that Terry was still an enigma to her, that he was, besides a gentle and generous man, a dangerous one on some levels still unknown to her, she knew that he had become part of her life. Inexplicably, totally and she felt dizzy with it all.

"Are you cold?" his voice came through to her, and she gave a small start.

"No, no, you're keeping me warm."

"You're shivering," he noted, tightening his arms around her.

"I'm falling in love with you," she said with a sigh. The revelation came easier than she had expected. Suddenly his grip on her relaxed, and she felt the chill of the evening close in around her. Turning around, she tried to find his eyes in the gloaming; they were dark and trained intensely on her. Swallowing the strange cry that caught in her voice, the unusual emotional response she had, she continued, unable to stop now, "I am, I love you—."

He brought a finger to her lips, silencing her. For a beat, he didn't move, then his voice came in the evening.

"Why?"

It was not a question she was expecting and she felt herself check at the baldness of it. Why did she love him? He certainly wasn't anything like the men she'd always been attracted to, and he was the opposite of Paul. In fact, he was a stranger in many ways.

"Because you're kind, you're a good man. Because you take care of me, and you like doing crossword puzzles." She searched for a better way to say what she meant; eloquence had left. "I—I know that you're many things, and I don't know all of them. But I know that whatever those things are, I'll love them…because they're you, part of you. And…you're just—." She threw her hands in the air helplessly. "You've taken over my spirit; my head and heart find a match in you, whether you reciprocate it or not. And the truth is, I don't even care, I just needed to let you know…to know that I love you."

He stood, staring at her, then his next question hit her hard. "So it's not because I've got money, that I am wealthy and influential?"

"Terry!" appalled, her hand went out to touch him, but paused halfway. "I—I've got money too, you know. I don't need yours to live well enough. And how am I to know how influential you are? Who cares, what am I to do with that? I just…I just love you for being…you," she finished, thinking it was a weak argument.

"Well, what took you so long?" the light teasing in his voice threw her off guard again, but it was the wrong thing to say. Grace continued to hold his gaze and put levelly,

"I learned the hard way that things don't last. Grasp them when you can."

He matched her seriousness immediately. "Grace. That's done."

"I know," she sighed, "And for whatever it's worth, I am so grateful for what you've done, how you've taken care of me. It has been…wonderful. I wanted you to know that."

She was unable to keep from touching him, and reached out, pulling on his shirt and he came willingly, his hands once again on her waist. The French music continued liltingly above them, as if she had not just given her heart to this man, as if they were still innocently dancing. Aware of the shift in the vibe between them, Grace wondered if she had been wrong to say something, but in the same instant she knew that this type of honesty was as much a part of her as Paul's death, her business ethic and her sense of style. Terry had to take it all or leave it.

"Dance again," he said, and began the slow waltz with her, one hand on her lower back, gripping her gently, and her eyes closed, glad she could at least share in this intimacy.

Eventually it grew so dark that the lights of the villa went on, and the romance of the evening changed, and they stopped dancing.

Terry took up the nearly full champagne bottle and she went to collect their glasses. They walked in, where candles had been lit by the staff, and found a small plate of fruits and cheese laid out.

"Hungry?" he asked her, and Grace shook her head. No, she was not hungry for food, she was hungry for him, and yet was now too afraid to make any overtures of her desire. She didn't want to do any more changes to their status quo.

"No; are you?"

"No."

"Then I'll quick put them back in the kitchen," she bent to scoop it up, but he stopped her.

"The staff will get it. Leave it, my love."

She paused, then straightened slowly, finding his direct gaze, wondering if she had heard him correctly, or if she should pretend it had not been said.

There was a smile playing along the corners of his mouth, a softness around his eyes, and suddenly she knew he loved her too, somehow and in some way, that for now, this was all she'd hear from him. But it was enough.

Joy surged through her, and with their champagne glasses still in hand, she walked up to him. In unison, their arms were around each other, and then he was kissing her passionately.

They could not get up the stairs fast enough, fairly tripping up in the dusky light. Without a pause, they went straight to his rooms and shut the double doors behind them. Setting down the champagne as she kicked off her shoes, he went straight for her. Her arms were around his neck, his chest, and he walked them, still kissing, over to the bed.

"Grace, Grace, my darling, my love," he heard himself saying, and a part of him registered it, recognized the near impossibility of him being so free with his words, knowing, at the same time, that he meant every one.

They laid on the covers, his hands were everywhere, tracing her sides, her breasts, reaching between her legs to trail a finger tantalizingly along her inner thigh. She shuddered in his arms, arching into him, and he knew tonight, he would make love to her – over and over if she would let him.

She unbuttoned his shirt blindly, pulling it off him and running her hands along his stomach, dragging her nails through the coarse dark hair of his chest. It made him go mad for her, his desire ran through him, almost like a punch in the gut, settling strongly in his groin, his arousal pressing tightly against the linen of his trousers.

Her shirt and skirt slipped off her cleanly and with a brief tug, and then she was there, more exposed than he'd ever seen her; the soft lace of her bra and panties looked dazzlingly clean against the new bronze of her skin. In the dim lamplight, he gazed down at her, lust nearly clouding his sight. She was beautiful and she was his, perhaps more so than any other woman had ever been.

The thought made him want her more, to possess her, take her completely. His hands were on her breasts, massaging them through the fabric, then trailing down her naval to rest lightly at the apex of her legs. She gave a small cry of pleasure, trembling, she turned into him, letting his fingers slide between her legs, stroking lightly, carefully, before letting it be, and he pulled her back to him, his hands on her back, unbuckling her bra and letting it fall off, drinking in the softness of her bosom against him, the small knobs of her nipples rubbing deliciously cool on his skin.

"Terry…" she breathed capturing his mouth again and again, taking his face in her hands and kissing him hard, deeply. His hands found her behind, scooping her close and pressing her hips against his, grinding hard. She moaned into his mouth, and with that, he flipped her over, pinning her beneath him and with a fast jerk had stripped her of the last piece of lace. She was naked now, and with that it seemed she became bolder, braver. Her hands found the band of his pants, and she pushed down the linen and his briefs together; he hurriedly kicked them off himself before turning once again to her.

Finally, they were skin on skin. Her body writhed below him, twisting, pushing. It was an age old dance, pressing, kissing, needing.

"Please, Terry," she was begging. "Touch me."

He found her wetness, delicately stroking, teasing until he could slip a finger in, finding her slippery, hot for him. It nearly took him over the edge alone; his desire for her was wavering on a thread.

Lifting her hips to meet his ministrations, her hand found his member, at first touching him softly, with inexpert touches.

"Yes, Grace," he moaned, and with that she gripped harder, as if remembering how to please a man, and her pulls were like fire, rocking him toward a heady release.

"Wait, wait, stop," he took his hand from her, stilling hers on him. She looked at him; a playful smile on her face. She knew he was near to exploding, that she'd done it to him, and he liked that she was no shy virgin, that she understood the rhythm.

"Will you take me, darling?" she whispered, reaching to him.

"Yes, love," he murmured, the endearment falling from his mouth without a hitch now, and he rolled quickly on top of her; she opened her legs willingly, and with a groan of pleasure he found her opening with his erection. In a smooth movement, he entered her; finding her tight and coiled, near release herself.

Her eyes were eyes shut against the ecstasy, and he watched them open and meet his intently, holding his gaze, slowly moving her hips against him until he had to close his own eyes against the pure heat generating between them. The scent of their sex was in the air, and only after a few strokes she reached orgasm, the spasms sending him spiraling up with her. He heard her cry out briefly, clutching him close, and his need seemed unending, as if his release wouldn't stop, as if the passion he'd been holding inside could never be spent fast enough.

Slowing the pace, he cupped her face, kissing her soundly before resting his forehead on hers.

"Terry," she said softly, running her hands along his back; he knew he was sweating, spent. "That—that was…"

"Spectacular?" he offered, and she gave a tremulous laugh, nodding yes.

"Good." He lowered himself to his elbows, so their faces remained close, brushing her forehead with a finger and kissing her eyelids intermittently. Finally he'd made love to Grace Bery, to the woman that had captured his attention what felt like months ago. His member still throbbed inside her; it'd been a release long coming, and he knew it'd been a long time for her too – her tauntness had been testament to that. He knew also that they would not sleep much tonight – now tasting it, he'd want more and hoped she was up for it.

She was brushing back his hair, smiling languidly.

"Pleased?" he asked, smirking down at her.

"Quite." She paused, then put wickedly. "How long do you need for recovery?"

He raised himself up slightly. " Woman, I am fully prepared to spend all night managing your needs."


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Grace laughed, and reached to bring him back closer. She was filled with joy, with utter contentment; under it all, the sexual drive that had been dormant for years had woken.

"I never would have guessed it. Terry Benedict in my arms, loving me."

"Yes."

She didn't know if he meant that he loved her, or that he meant to make love to her again, but either way, she knew he meant it.

Finally pulling off from him, she felt the old familiar wetness between her legs, the smell of sex and desire, and under it all was the thick iron tang of blood. Grace closed her eyes, knowing that Terry's length had stretched her once again, and relished the fact. She remembered sometimes this would happen with Paul, during his illness there'd be long stretches of abstinence, but once in a while he'd have energy, and it was like popping her cherry all over again.

"If you'll excuse me," she asked, and walked shamelessly across the floor, knowing he was watching her retreating behind hungrily.

As she wiped the bit of blood and semen from between her legs, there was a soft knock on the half opened door.

Straightening, she saw Terry, also standing unabashedly nude, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, it's very much so. It's wonderful, in fact," she smiled at him, but saw his eyes were on the snowy white towel, where a thin smear of red blood was visible. He frowned, a scowl working its way across his forehead.

"You're bleeding."

She opened the door further, putting a hand on his chest, forcing him to look at her. How could he understand that this bit of blood was symbolic to her? That she had been living as a virgin would after Paul's death, that he had opened her sexuality once again? It was as if he had claimed her.

"It's nothing, Terry. It just goes to show that I haven't had sex in a…in a damn long time."

He raised his eyebrows; he'd never heard her swear. "Is that so?"

"Yes. I promise, it's not painful. I didn't want to stain the sheets."

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know. You didn't. It was…sublime." She left the bathroom and pressed her naked flesh against his, feeling the delicious twitch of his member already swelling with her nearness. "And I hope you'll continue."

And he did, throughout the entire evening. Sometimes it was slow, almost beautiful in the sensuality, and other times they took each other roughly, desperately. He dozed off in the small hours of the morning, and she gave herself a minute to lay quietly, contemplating how full he made her feel, the satisfied heaviness in her womb, and how much her heart reached and yearned for him.

Terry sat still on the plane, his legs stretched wide before him, the heat of the sun still burning its way into his back. It was late in the day when they had taken off from the private airport; this time they had the plane to themselves, and his only complaint was that this stewardess was very young and borderline stupid. She had forgotten their names completely when they'd arrived, and had spilled champagne on Grace's white skirt. While Grace had brushed it off in the calm way she had with people in professional situations, Terry had to keep himself from snapping at the girl. It seemed the closer they got to Vegas, the more uptight he became, thinking about all the worries and issues that would be there to greet him.

On top of it all, Grace had told him this morning, as they laid together on the yacht, taking in the warm, exotic sun, that she'd be leaving in a week for Boston – it was her New York wedding, and she had to be there for the client.

Terry found himself irritated that she'd be leaving, though it only meant a four day hiatus, he had begun to expect to have her there in his hotel.

Regardless, there'd be much to worry about besides Grace. Toulour would be arriving in Nevada in two days, there was money to transfer, new safety codes to install, plans to tighten up security in the blasted museum. He shifted slightly in his seat, trying not to disturb Grace, who had drifted off into sleep on his shoulder. Putting an arm around her, he absently rubbed her waist, enjoying her nearness.

Once they were back, he'd have to hold himself apart from her again, to keep up his image and his professionalism around the staff. There was no need to let everyone know that he had taken Grace as his lover, though he assumed there was already some sort of talk; enough men watching the company security cameras would have seen them going into each other's suites by now.

Still, he mused, it was worth this trip. Not only to finally fulfill his desire for her – which had not abated all morning, to the point that they had ended up making a go of it in the ship's cabin halfway through the day – but to hear her, see her, completely free of worries and work, to dance the night away with her, and to hear her tell him that she loved him.

"Sir?" it was their ill-informed stewardess, coming around with a second round of drinks: his whiskey she at least got right.

"Would you like me to set your wife's drink here?" she asked, gesturing to the nearby table.

Without missing a beat, Terry nodded. "Yes."

When she'd moved away, he inhaled deeply, wishing he could light a cigar. Wife. Maybe he should have corrected her, but it was interesting to hear Grace referred to so completely as his. His wife. Mrs. Benedict. He would have laughed out loud if he had wanted to wake her. He had never thought there would be a Mrs. Benedict, and especially so after he'd lost Tess.

He'd not been prepared for Grace to say she loved him either; he had to remember that she was the marrying type, that she craved the intimacy having felt it before. Him, he wasn't so sure it was the right option – it would require a lot of changes he wasn't primed to make.

Regardless, he had let his own feelings get hold of him, had started a strange habit of calling her "my Grace" and "love," a habit which he could not seem to break. Well, now that he was going back to work, he'd have to curb it. Besides, he had enough enemies that would pounce on this on so many ways he didn't even want to start surmising.

It hadn't scared him, when she'd told him, that was at least something. And, somehow, he knew he reciprocated. Maybe it was her – her body, her scent – that drove him so crazy with desire. He'd be able to think about it clearly when she was gone for a while, working out east. At the same time, the thought of her away made him surly. If she was his wife, he'd at least have some say on where she spent her time, and it certainly wouldn't be halfway across the goddamn country.

Shaking himself inwardly, he instinctively pulled her sleeping form closer, hearing a soft sigh escape her. For now, she was here beside him, and if he wanted to, he could pretend she was his wife the whole rest of the plane ride and just see how it made him feel.


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Grace flew back to Boston on Wednesday morning. Terry had not come to drive her this time; he was busy catching up and they'd taken their leave early in her suite, where he'd spent the night in her bed and in her body. She still felt the hot flush of sex in her as she got on the train to get to the office. There'd be no time to relax at home today yet; she had to hit the ground running if they were ready to go the next morning up to New York state.

"Hello Grace!" her secretary Miriam chirped. "Good to finally see your face around here!"

Smiling warmly at the matronly woman behind the desk, Grace plopped a box of chocolates down.

"Think the girls will all forgive me for ruining their diets?"

"Ooo—from France! Shannon mentioned you went overseas."

Sighing, Grace realized she should have asked for secrecy; it would have at least kept Shannon from blurting everything at once.

"Yes. It was lovely. And so are these chocolates." Popping one into her mouth, and winking at Miriam, she went directly to her office and plugged into her laptop.

"Grace!" Shannon's head came around the corner. "I thought I heard you! Thank God – we've got so much to cover before heading up tomorrow, and I also wanted you to check over the wording for the McCrumm—."

"No, Shannon," Grace shook her head. "We focus on this week's wedding. You know my rules."

"Fine. But I'm bringing along the paperwork for the plane ride anyway," Shannon said stubbornly, her smile broad and teasing.

"Fine," Grace rejoined. "Now, can we please get down to work?"

"No." Her associate came to perch on the edge of the desk. "I need to know how France was. Was it beautiful?"

She felt her cheeks flush at all the memories. "It was."

"And…?"

Her eyes narrowed at her assistant, but it was difficult to keep the smile from trembling across her mouth.

"Ah ha!" Shannon didn't miss it, and crowed a little, leaping off the desk. "You got fucking laid, didn't you, Grace. This Todd guy, or whatever his name is, finally got to you! Thank the Lord!"

"Language, please," she chided, but was laughing too.

"You have to tell me all about it!"

"I can't," Grace protested, feeling the blush still creeping up her cheeks. "I simply can't. It was too wonderful, if I talk about it, it'll make it all go away."

Shannon stood with her hands on her hips. "Well, I hope I get to meet him, at least."

"Oh you will," Grace muttered under her breath, thinking of the moment when Shannon would be flying out to help with the Vegas job. She was hard pressed to think that the sexual tension between her and Terry was well hidden.

"Good." Shannon was busy grinning and didn't see Grace's blush recede as she thought about the complications, once again, of mixing business with pleasure. Well, what was done, was done. She loved him, and there could be no turning back now, not unless he rejected her which was, she had to keep reminding herself, entirely possible.

"So…again, can we please get to work now?" she pleaded, and finally Shannon went to fetch the binders for the weekend's event.

They flew out early Thursday, and by the time they'd checked into the hotel and had went to stop at the venue and the florist, Grace was feeling the time change from France to Vegas to East Coast. Unable to take a break, she plowed through their laundry list of calls with Shannon in the hotel board room before calling it a day.

"We're ready for the rehearsal dinner, then," she finished, hanging up her iPhone.

"Good. Now…" Shannon reached in, pulling out extra folders. "If you could take the extra moment to look over the ceremony programs for the McCrumm Wedding in Boston on Halloween weekend." As she pulled out the paperwork, extra manilla envelopes fell down.

"Oh, excellent, you've brought the Bellagio job too. I've been wanting to hear how it's going, Grace." Shannon picked them up, and Grace gave a tired smile. Thinking about the Bellagio job made her think of Terry. She wondered if she should call him later that night; she had a pretty good notion of when he would have a spare minute.

As if her phone had a mind of its own, it gave the melodious beeping. Closing her eyes tiredly to gather her wits to handle "just one more question" from tomorrow's vendors, she lifted it up.

"Grace Bery."

"Still working?"

Her eyes flew open. "Terry." She couldn't keep the relief from her voice. How she'd missed talking to him; she had been spoiled in France.

Next to her, Shannon's head snapped up, and then she began to smile evilly, fully prepared to sit there and listen in. Shaking her head, Grace stood, moving off to a corner of the room.

"I thought I'd see how you're holding up."

"It's so good to hear from you." She turned to take a peek at Shannon, who was now going through the event files interestedly, but she knew her associate had one ear trained on the conversation. "I've missed you."

"I figured as much. That's why I'm calling." His tone was light, warm. "Tomorrow the big day?"

"No, the wedding's Saturday. Tomorrow's rehearsal. How's work with you?"

"Going quite well, actually. I'll show you when you're back. How many more days?"

She smiled ruefully. "Three more. I'll be back Sunday afternoon on the five pm. Can you wait that long?"

There was pause, then a slow chuckle. "I don't think I have a choice. Damnit, Grace, you can't come home earlier?"

It wasn't the time to tell him that Vegas wasn't her home, though she liked to think he thought of it as such.

"No, Terry. You know I can't."

"I miss you, love," his reply was quiet, but she caught it nonetheless, and it made her feel comforted—this was the reason for his call, to say as much.

She took another look at Shannon, who was now sitting back, watching her interestedly and waiting, a pencil tapping lightly on the tabletop.

"I'm glad, darling. Shall I call you late Saturday night? It'll be close to midnight out there by the time I'm back in my hotel."

"Doesn't matter."

"Alright then," she paused, then covered her hand over her mouthpiece, saying softly, "Good night, my love."

"Good night, my Grace," he said, before she heard the quick click of his phone snapping shut. Grace spun on Shannon.

"Do you mind?!"

"What? You didn't leave the room," Shannon pointed out. "I figured it was nothing super private. But it was pretty juicy." She slid the Bellagio folder over to Grace as she sat. "Terry? Can you tell me…" she jabbed her finger at the contract, looking up at Grace incredulously. "Terry as in the Terry Benedict that's on the contract!?"

For a moment, Grace thought about fibbing. It would save so much explaining right now. But then, how would she explain when they were doing the job out in Vegas together? It would all come crashing down around her then. Meeting Shannon's eyes, she admitted,

"Yes. Terry Benedict."

"The client!?"

"At least he's not a groom," Grace reasoned, trying to lighten the mood. Shannon's good humor twitched slightly, but she was not finished yet.

"But he's our biggest damn client ever! If things get messed up, it's seriously ruinous, Grace. You know that, right?"

"I do, of course I do!" she threw up her hands. "I think about that, every once in a while. But more than anything, it's…oh hell, I know, it's complicated." She flopped her chin in her hands, thinking of all the worries and doubts about the relationship that sometimes overpowered her mind. But then she thought about all the other things; she knew he was not prone to taking lovers, that she was the first in a long time – since the woman he'd cared for at least four years ago. She trusted him, believed in him and his love for her. To anyone on the outside, it must seem strange and like a far flung affair. Looking back at Shannon, she offered the only explanation that came out easily:

"But he loves me."

Her associate stared open mouthed for a minute. "He said that."

"Yes." Well, not exactly, but pretty damn close. She knew what he'd meant.

Blowing out loudly, Shannon leaned backwards, a finger to her lips.

"You sure he wasn't saying it to get you in bed?"

"I would have gone had he not said it," Grace said bluntly, and her response finally garnered a small grin from Shannon, who always liked it when Grace got a little off color. "He—he's…wonderful."

"Just in bed or otherwise too?" now it was Shannon's quip, and with that, Grace knew she had her ally.

"In everything he does. Wait until you meet him, Shannon," finally able to talk, Grace gave examples of their adventures in France, and boxing night in Vegas, praising how he knew how to handle all the aspects of large events.

"Well, if he knows how to run things, why hire us?" Shannon finally broke in. Her question put a halt to Grace's stream of conversation.

"I—I don't know. I suppose he wanted the creativity."

"Or he wanted you."

"Then it's a very expensive way to get a girl's attention," Grace said matter-of-factly, but Shannon was again shaking her head.

"If you want to ask me, this guy's probably loaded. What's a hundred thou?"

"Money is not part of this," Grace put abruptly. "If anything, he's worried I love him for his money, not the other way around. He doesn't try to impress me with it—."

"You love him too?" Shannon had already stopped listening to half the explanation. "You told him that?"

Grace hesitated, then went for broke. "I did. And I meant it."

"But…well…wow, Grace. You don't do that lightly."

Shaking her head, she started to pull together the final binders. "Leave it be, Shannon. I'm getting tired and we've got more to do tomorrow."

Her assistant looked ready to get more information out of her, but decided against it, and gratefully Grace went back to her room to lay down. She felt a little deflated with the outburst of her secret, but knew she'd appreciate having a woman confidant.

Saturday afternoon, Terry found himself sitting in his office going over the new security plans, once again, for the museum. Charles had outdone himself in finding a new "unbreachable" system, but it meant extra paperwork for him.

Sighing, he checked the clock again. He couldn't call her; she was right in the middle of a gig. But his irritation at being separated from her meant his concentration was finally waning. He'd been disciplined all week, working out an extra hour and going to bed late. Mary, his secretary, had been giving him sympathetic looks, which he was of a mind to shout off her face, but couldn't bring himself to do because he knew she understood.

Toulour had come on Tuesday; they'd had a brief meeting that evening and then he'd gotten regular reports since then on Ocean's activities.

"Mr. Benedict?" there was a knock on the door; one of his security guards was standing at attention, waiting for the flick of his hand of approval before entering.

"What is it, Burt?"

"There's a message here from a Mr. Ocean requesting your presence at an emergency meeting at the Mirage?"

Immediately alert, Terry got up, barking orders at once. "You and Anderson with me. I'll need a car."

Within minutes, he was on his way across the strip, wondering what could have prompted Danny to call such a meeting. Something must have happened.

He had to laugh at himself for getting in on this game. Standing in a room of Danny's men while they hashed out a plan to deal with the broken drill, and a rough group of Mexican rebels down south, he had to admit that it felt good to be part of the gang. Lighting a cigar without asking permission, he stood, twirling his cane, and sat, listening to the boys discuss tactics for distracting Bank's assistant.

"I'm so deep into Pepperidge, I am him!" Linus was arguing.

Danny turned to Terry. "How necessary is it that we get those diamonds?"

"Guys, I can handle it," Linus again.

Terry took at puff of the Cuban. "Do you have your affairs in order?"

Rusty got off the phone. "We need thirty-six thousand to take care of the Mexican problem."

"Okay, do the math," Livingston began to count.

"No, no," Rusty jumped in. "Thirty-six total."

Frank Catton stopped on his way to the couch. "They're working for three seventy five a day down there? That's stealing."

"That's Mexico," someone chimed in.

Terry leaned back, enjoying the banter for once. He wondered briefly what it'd be like to be part of a group, to become a partner instead of a lone man.

Once their plan had been laid out, and Terry had agreed to pay for the second drill from France on the understanding that the boys would triple his money, he was back in the car, feeling smug.

If only they knew what he had up his sleeve. Toulour had been already sniffing out some of the pieces that Danny had remained shady about, and while they were not entirely lying about anything – yet – Terry still couldn't trust that things were kosher.

He had a brief meeting with Toulour on the dusty side streets outside of Vegas later in the afternoon, and then he'd be able to get back to the casino floor, check in with Charles, and do one last look at the new museum security system.

And somewhere in the late night hours, he'd hear from Grace.


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

She was back in the hotel later than she'd planned; they had had to put away more vases for the florist's pick-up the next morning, and getting all the catering items out of the tents, making sure all the space heaters were off, and running to fetch the groom's rented tie was all in a day's work, but she and Shannon had been going nonstop since six in the morning. Unable to really shake the tiredness that'd been dragging at her since the time change in France, she slipped into bed with her phone.

Thankfully, it was only a little after midnight out west – she knew Terry would still be up, though whether he was available to take her call was another thing.

He picked up on the second ring, as if he had been waiting.

"Grace."

"Terry." She hoped her exhaustion didn't come through the wires.

"Long day?" Apparently he could read her anyway.

"Yes, as always when it's an outside affair. But worth it, of course."

"Good. Ready to come home?"

"I cannot wait to see you," she admitted, once again grateful she could confide such feelings to him so easily now.

"I agree. Five days is a long time. So, to celebrate your return, I have dinner reservations at Manchesi in two weeks – Halloween is apparently a very open date."

She smiled at his excitement, sorry she'd have to crush it. "Darling. I can't, though I'd love to. I'm so sorry. But I'm back in Boston for that last weekend in October – one of the weddings I must finish out this year."

She waited, hoping he wasn't angry with her. After a beat, he said matter-of-factly. "Well, that's easily remedied. I didn't know you'd be leaving Vegas so soon after your return."

"Oh Terry," she felt miserable. "I desperately want to spend every waking minute with you. But I've got a business to run, clients to deliver…and you've got your own responsibilities. You know I don't choose to be away from you."

There was another pause, then a barely audible sigh. "I understand, Grace. Its—I suppose I've just been used to having you close. You're gone now, you'll be gone again…I don't like having you running around the country alone."

She gave a small laugh. "You mean, you don't like being out of control."

"No. I don't. Especially where you are concerned. I've grown a little selfish and want you generally to myself."

More than anything she agreed with him, knowing life was too short to focus on things other than people and relationships. But she was unwilling to start promising sacrifices on her work without a promise from him in return. Instead, she said lightly,

"Well, I happen to want the same thing from you, Mr. Benedict. Will I have you to myself on Sunday evening?"

"There will be champagne and popcorn waiting in your suite," he told her.

"Who," she put, enjoying their flirting. "Cares about popcorn? I'm much rather have you."

"Now we're getting somewhere, my Grace. And now that that's settled, I'll let you get your sleep. You won't be getting much of it tomorrow night," he warned.

"Duly noted. Good night, Terry. I love you," she said.

"Good night, Grace," there was warmth in his voice, and though he did not return the sentiment, she did not expect it, and was comforted just in his tone.

They hung up, and she felt asleep almost immediately, exhaustion settling in after a week of long hours and hard work.

When Sunday morning came, Grace could barely get up. Fatigued from a long and busy weekend, she dragged herself to the desk in the room and pulled out the wedding folder for Halloween weekend. As much as she wanted to concentrate solely on the Bellagio job, she knew she would have to focus on this last bride first.

"Grace?"

It was Shannon at the door. She went to open it, finding her assistant dressed and with her suitcase packed.

"You're heading straight to Vegas from here?" she asked, cocking her head at Grace's obvious rumpled state.

"Yes. Will you be alright at the office for another two weeks?"

"Sure. See you in a couple days, really. Will you be ready for the Boston wedding; Halloween morning sunrise nuptials should be gorgeous."

"Of course. I've got all the paperwork thus far, thanks to you. I'll start prepping all the work on the Bellagio job so that you will be caught up right away in November."

Shannon hugged her good-bye with a few parting words of advise about Terry, which Grace half-heard as she moved around the hotel room. Today she was going back to Terry. Thank God. She felt that once she was with him, her exhaustion would disappear, that all would be made right again.

As she sat in the airport waiting for the plane to arrive, she thought about her home in Boston, sitting unused and cold. The trees were probably turning and in the height of color. She thought of the crisp, cool smells that came with falling leaves, and of making tea and wearing cableknit. It was thoughts like this that had kept her in Massachusetts; it was the nearby sea, the smell of salt and old wood and the call of seagulls.

When her plane was called, she got on, planning to go over paperwork, though she ended up napping nearly the whole time. She woke as they landed, slightly disoriented, then felt excitement and relief surge through her. Soon she'd see Terry again, and be able to hold him and touch him.

"Ms. Bery?"

She halted on the way to the taxi line, feeling the warmth of Vegas heat hit her, though it was now evening. Glancing around, disconcerted, until she saw James, Terry's driver, waiting for her near the curb.

"James. Thank you," she saw him smile when she said his name, and then he bent to take her bags.

Once she'd slid into the backseat, she smelled the faint remembrance of cigar. James got in and pulled out the car immediately, smoothly, and she exhaled. There was a sense in being home, that was certain. It was as if she was putting down roots here, too.

"Has the weather been good?" she leaned forward, eager to hear about all things Las Vegas. "Getting to be cooler yet?"

James glanced in the rearview mirror. If he was unused to being spoken to, he hid it well. "It has been near perfect weather."

"Good to hear." She sat back, looking out the window as the strip came closer and the hotels loomed up. "Home," she whispered to herself, as they pulled into the front of the Bellagio.

She stepped out, breathing in, feeling a small smile creep across her face. While she still felt in-transit, she was going to be able to relax tonight, and felt certain she could put work away for a while.

His cell phone chirped. Glancing away from the day's take in his black folder, he saw that it was the front desk. Grace must be back.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Benedict. Ms Bery has arrived."

"Thank you, Charlotte." He snapped the phone shut, then glanced at Charles. His casino manager was looking at him intently. While the man was probably several years older than him, Terry felt as if he was the only other man in the hotel who had any notion of the work that went into daily operations, the stresses and worries that went with running the business.

"Sir, if I may make a suggestion."

He looked at Charles incredulously. Did the man really think he was soft enough to need advice about managing the casino numbers? By remaining silent, Charles took that as an affirmative.

"Time doesn't stop, sir. Best not to waste it."

Suddenly Terry realized that Charles was trying to give him relationship pointers. The staff must really be talking if the rumor had hit Charles' ears, Charles who had no time but for business. Turning to the older man, he gazed at him with hooded eyes, and asked one of the first personal questions he'd ever put; "Are you married, Charles?"

"Yes sir. Thirty years now."

"And you like it?"

"Very much, sir."

Nodding briefly, Terry took the numbers and turned away, making a direct line to his office. He flicked his eyes to the security guards on either side of the doors and entered, putting the numbers of the day into the locked files and then went directly to the safe. It had not been difficult for the ladies to persuade him to buy Grace a small gift. He'd been weak with missing her, as much as he hated to admit it. The yellow diamond pendant hung from a necklace of spun white gold, sparkling warmly as he opened the box to check it once more.

The quick walk to the elevators was made without any interruptions by staff, and he rode up, thinking about how he'd give her the jewelry, what he'd say and how. He hoped the housekeepers had brought up the popcorn and the champagne; he found himself looking forward to starting a little tradition with her. The routine was comforting and refreshing at the same time.

He knocked briefly, hating every second he had to stay in front of the cameras, but she answered quickly, opening the door wide to envelope him into their private haven.

"Terry!" The door shut behind them, and he reached blindly for her, pulling her tight and close immediately, claiming her lips, her neck, her collarbone while she raked her fingers through his hair, pulling off his jacket and yanking at his tie. He had not planned to ravish her at once, but could not seem to help himself and she was just as eager. They were on her bed without warning, barely removing half their clothing before he took her, fast and urgent. His desire for her, which he had worked very hard to ignore all week, rose up hot and needy.

They laid quietly after, his shirt untucked and slacks hanging open, her knit dress a bunched mess, which she tried to demurely hide by creeping under the covers. With a strange sense of comfort, he striped off his pants entirely and went to join her, regardless of the hour.

"It's so wonderful to see you," she said, bringing her arms up to hold him close.

"My Grace," he kissed her shoulder, running a hand softly up her dress, caressing the bareness of her back. She was still wearing a bra, which he unhooked mindlessly as he stroked her skin. "I have missed you so much."

"You were in my thoughts the whole weekend," she confessed, smiling up at him with such pure happiness it made him feel as though he'd won something huge, though he was not quite sure that that something was.

"And now you're here," he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Are you up for popcorn and champagne?"

She looked up quickly, an eyebrow quirked. "Really? Popcorn?"

He hoped he didn't look too sheepish when he nodded, but Grace was delighted, asking him which movie they'd watch, assuming he had planned everything – which, correctly, he had – and they finally dragged themselves from under the covers to grab the champagne.

He'd chosen Swordfish, because it looked like another good intense film, and they watched it with interest as Grace hadn't seen this one yet either. He kept pulling her tighter to him, as if the days between seeing each other had been years. Halfway through the movie, her legs ended up across his lap, which prompted a pause in the movie while they made love again on the couch, this time slower, and with more intensity.

By the time the movie ended, Grace was looking quite tired, and he took her to bed, kissing her until she fell asleep in his arms.

Once she was sleeping, he moved out to make a few calls to the casino floor, checking in with Charles and then with Toulour.

"Terry?"

Grace was up, standing against the door, her arms crossed, a small smile on her face and looking refreshed from her brief nap. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket, hoping she had not overheard enough to start piecing things together. She padded over, barefoot, then kissed him on the lips lightly. "Still working?"

"It's only ten. I had a few calls to make yet. Interested in dinner?"

"Absolutely." She went into the bathroom to straighten her hair and make-up, a process she kept so short that Terry still couldn't believe he'd found a woman that took under five minutes to get ready. Every other girl in Vegas would be in front of a mirror for fifteen to thirty just to go out in public. He wandered in after her, buckling his belt, enjoying the comfort that came with their togetherness.

"So, tomorrow we nail down a few things with the gala," she said to him, looking at him through the mirror. "I was wondering how you'd feel if we hung strong enough cables that we could have people – acrobats and the like – swinging through the ceiling, or on large swings, like they did in the thirties?"

She was back in work mode too, he realized, and brought himself to answer instead of stare hungrily at her behind.

"Have you connected with Cam?"

"No; who's Cam?"

"I'll get you his number, he's the guy who manages all those logistics." Terry held the door for her as they moved into the hallway. As they reached the elevator, Grace absently touched him, trying to grasp a few fingers. For a moment, he held onto them, but then released them, feeling the old tenseness that came with being watched at all times. Her eyes darkened slightly, but then she looked away, and went to stand in the opposite end of the elevator, as if she had accepted the situation.

And in that instant, Terry realized what Charles, his casino manager, meant about time.


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

It was the Monday before she left for Boston again, and Grace was sitting quietly in the small nook overlooking the Bellagio waterworks. She'd actually been able to see Terry often during the day over the past two weeks. Mainly because they were confirming some of the big details for the New Years gala. They had worked efficiently together, and well. She was careful to be cognizant of his time and his attention span, but found him attentive to all things she brought to the table.

She was heading out Wednesday morning, and thought about all the things she'd need to do at home, now that she would actually be able to stay at her apartment.

"Ms Bery?" it was their waiter with the customary tray of scotch and whiskey. She nodded at him, and he set down the drinks and left. She was supposed to meet Terry for drinks, then dinner. Apparently there would be clients at dinner, so she'd worn one of the designer dresses he'd bought her; this one was soft tan with a dusting of sparkles interwoven through the fabric. The restaurant they would be going to was one of the best in Vegas.

She felt his presence before his hand was on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, smiling. For an instant, she thought he might lean down for a quick kiss, but she watched him check himself and then slide to sit in the chair across from her.

No matter how ardent he was in private, Terry Benedict was in control of himself publicly; there'd be very little physical contact, she knew, all night.

"You look lovely, Grace," he took her hand under the table instead. She squeezed his fingers and shot him another smile.

"I dressed for you," she said.

"Then this is to thank you for always looking so beautiful. And…for being mine." He took out a small box, handing it to her. The velvet under her hands was still warm from being next to his body all day. "I meant to give this to you last week, but it seems we always get a little…distracted."

The sexuality in his voice was discernable, and he was looking at her with that rare softness in his eyes that she knew to be his way of saying he cared for her.

Opening the box, she saw the yellow diamond winking in its pendant. It was large and costly, she was sure, but once again she felt strange getting jewelry. He didn't need to do it, and she told him as much.

"I know, Grace," he stood, taking the clasps from her and draping it around her neck, securing it for her. "But I like to."

"Thank you. It's simply gorgeous."

"Cheers, then," he lifted his glass. "Are you ready for dinner?"

His client was old European money, and Terry watched Grace listen intently to stories that his client's wife must like enjoying telling new fresh ears. She was animated, lifting hands dripping in diamonds to exclaim her point, and he saw that Grace's new diamond pendant compared well in size and sparkle. Once in while, Grace's eyes met his, and she would smile across the table at him.

"So, Terry," his client was jovial, a baron of high standing in Germany. "Tell me what I should be looking forward to at the Bellagio."

He glanced at Grace, wondering what he should disclose about the New Year's gala. There needed to be buzz among his high rollers, and so he outlined a few of his favorite items that would be featured, watching his client's eyes light up with interest.

"You don't say? People hanging from the ceiling? I am looking forward to seeing it. We will be sure to be in town."

"Good. I'll reserve the best suite for you," he assured the baron, who nodded satisfactorily.

"Now, you must tell me," he leaned into Terry's personal space in the unassuming way of Europeans. "Just where did you find that charming woman with you?"

Slightly irritated with the man's closeness, as well as how everyone seemed to be interested in his private business today, Terry gave a slight shake of his head. "She was working a job at my hotel."

He refused to say more, unable and unwilling to disclose personal information to a client, no matter how rich he was.

"My dear," the baron's wife interrupted them, thankfully. "Where was that lovely little shop where we found those chairs, the vintage Egyptian 1920's revivals?"

Terry found himself looking at Grace again, listening with half an ear as the other three got into a discussion about revival furniture. She was animated, involved, delighting his clients with her personal warmth. He knew it was half a trick of her trade, to make people feel at ease, but he also knew her well enough now to understand that she genuinely enjoyed conversations with strangers, that her warmth was sincere.

By the time dinner was done, Grace and the baroness were hugging good-bye, and his client was looking on fondly. As they got into the car to head back to the Bellagio, Terry finally was able to take her hand.

"Thank you, Grace. I think we've just solidified that relationship." He brought her fingers to his lips. "Your presence was necessary."

He saw her blush slightly, and was amazed that his compliments could still make her flustered. The heat of several whiskeys was coursing through his blood, and in the coolness of the car, he pulled her close across the leather until he could scoop her legs across his lap.

In a quick glance with James in the rearview mirror, the partition was up, and then he was kissing her in the darkness, as Vegas lights flashed past them on the way down the strip. She pressed into him, massaging his chest, sliding her hands under his jacket and vest before daringly reaching down to brush against his erection. He couldn't help his reaction to her touch, gliding his own hands up her dress and stroking her intimately. This was something he would have never expected; to be getting all hot and bothered in the back of a moving car, unable to keep his hands to himself. There was something daring about it, that was for sure. Moaning into her mouth, he put his hands on her shoulders, stopping them from further action as they glided into the Bellagio property. Straightening themselves, James got out and knocked lightly on the windows, being sure to give them a discreet moment to collect their bearings.

When they stepped out, Terry found himself still unable to cool off; he kept his hand on her back as they walked into the lobby. He wondered who would notice this, but as his eyes swept the reception desks, he was interested to see that no one seemed to have made a remark about his physical proximity to Grace.

Leaning in, he murmured softly, "My rooms?"

She nodded, and they went straight up, where he made love to her in his bed. When they woke the next morning, they talked more about the baron, about securing more business like that, and Terry realized that this could be his life; this mix of comfort and business. But such good things did not come without a price, of this he was sure.


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

The Boston wedding went off without a hitch, besides the bride who accidentally forgot her specific shade of lipstick. A trip to Walgreens had fixed that without further issue, and Grace had been thankful that the weather had held up somewhat decently.

It was officially Halloween now, and she sat on the front stop of her brownstone apartment building with her neighbor Liza, handing out candy to the occasional group of children as they walked past.

It had been a Friday wedding, which meant had Grace had her way, she would have flown back to Vegas Saturday morning. But the apartment needed a quick clean, a check to make sure the winterizing was working and to grab a few more items of clothing. It felt good to sit still Saturday over tea, looking out at her street, which from absence seemed different and the same at the same time. She missed Terry and Paul both now; being back in Boston made her think of her husband more.

The evening was slow in fading; she saw the glimmer of sunset through the buildings, and the breeze was picking up perfectly. In the quietness of a Saturday evening, the rustle of leaves being blown around the street was loud, and occasionally the floating chorus of small voices saying "Trick or Treat!" could be heard echoing around the brick walls.

"What time is this done?" Liza was asking, and Grace jerked back to reality.

"I think in the next fifteen minutes it's over," she pulled back the dark knit sweater from her wrist, checking her watch. "Do you want me to finish up?"

"If you don't mind. I've got to get ready for a costume party tonight." Liza stood, brushing dust from her bottom before heading up. "Do you want to come?" she tossed over her shoulder. Grace thought about it sincerely for a minute, then shook her head, glancing up at her friend.

"No, thanks though. I have a flight to catch tomorrow afternoon and should finish packing."

Nodding and giving her a quick grin, Liza disappeared inside. Grace turned back to the street, glancing to where there was another group of children slowly moving her way. They would probably be the last, and then she could go in and have a coffee. She rubbed her hands on her jeans, enjoying the feel of being casual, wearing fur lined boots and a knit cap; she felt young again.

"Trick or Treat."

Her head snapped up, disbelieving.

Terry stood before her, cigar stub in hand. The bowl of candy slipped from her fingers and she stood suddenly.

"My God. My love!" She nearly leapt into his arms from the stairs, closing her eyes as she reveled in his scent and his warmth. "You're here!"

She felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her close before letting her go. Even outside of Vegas, she realized, she couldn't expect Terry to be giving shows of affection in public.

"Hey, Trick or Treat!" There were several small voices at the height of their knees, with two sets of parents trailing behind, watching.

She bent to pick up the bowl of candy, depositing generous amounts in each pail in the hopes of getting rid of most of it.

"Thank you!" came the smattering response, and they all hopped away, oblivious to Terry, who stood quietly, bemused.

"Would you like to come up?" she asked, trying to hide her joy, to sound casual. He nodded, following her in. Liza lived upstairs, and Grace had the entire lower level to herself, which was mainly to house the furniture she still kept from the house in Quincy.

"A…drink? I was going to go for coffee after trick or treating," she offered, watching him, feeling a growing sense of disbelief that he was there, wandering around her home with his forgotten bit of cigar in one hand, picking up a framed photo in the other. She felt strangely exposed, but there was a comfort there too. Terry was with her – he had followed her, missed her, needed her.

She noticed he was wearing corduroys and a cream cableknit sweater under his dark sport coat, a look she'd never seen from him. It was preppy, nonchalant, and fit right into the casualness of Boston attire.

He set down the photograph and looked around once more before settling his eyes on her. She'd yet to turn on any lights, and in the watery evening light he looked like a gray blue shadow.

"We should go for a coffee."

"I walk from here."

He nodded. "I could do with a stretch."

Taking a deep breath, she moved to grab her keys before he followed her outside again, and then they were strolling down the sidewalk in the gloaming, as if it were perfectly natural that he should be there, with her, on the streets outside her home.

"This was a surprise. Why did you come?" she asked wonderingly, innocently.

He tossed the cold cigar butt into a trash can and was silent for a minute. She wondered if it was a trust issue, if he was thinking he'd surprise her, find her with another. Shaking off the idea, she waited patiently, knowing words did not always come easy to him.

"Honestly, Grace, because I needed to get out of Vegas. I wanted to see your home. I missed you. Badly."

She almost laughed with happiness, but knew he would interpret it incorrectly. "I'm very flattered, Terry. That you would fly all this way, just to see me. I—it's very romantic of you."

At that he gave a half chuckle, before unexpectedly taking her hand. It was a very natural move, but one she knew was an effort for him.

"There are no cameras around here, Mr. Benedict," she said lightly. "And if there are, no one has a clue to who you are."

"That's what I'm banking on," he replied, his voice only slightly tight with discomfort, and she realized this was yet another of his silent overtures of affection, that he would fly to see her, and touch her so openly. Squeezing his fingers, she smiled at him.

"We're nearly there, just the next block over. Their lattes are to die for."

He sat inside the café, twirling the creamer around his coffee, watching Grace watch the many costumed people trail by the window. She looked so different in this place, so natural and free. She'd covered her long hair with a skull cap of sorts, which actually looked charming on her, and her cheeks were still flushed after sitting outdoors for a long time. He had never seen her in jeans, or in clothing that wasn't white. He had to admit, he liked this other side of her.

The heist had happened Friday night. He'd even had a small part to play in securing one of the men inside Bank's casino. Ocean's gang had hit the Bank casinos, and he was watching the entire routine with Linus on a hidden camera, chuckling at the antics of the group for many reasons. One, he had known that Toulour was going to get the diamonds anyway, and two because it was just delicious to watch Bank have his precious plans ripped from under him. It had been executed perfectly.

He'd been sitting on Friday by himself at dinner; it was late and he did not expect to hear from Toulour for a while, knowing the man had to take cover for at least forty eight hours to avoid detection by Ocean. He had been eating without tasting, thinking about how the hours dragged by when he knew Grace was away. As he had looked at Charles walking the floor below him, hands clasped, he thought about how time didn't stand still and that he had the money and the means to see her now, when he wanted her. He found himself on a plane Saturday morning, arriving just in time to grab a driver and find her street. For a while, he'd sat in the car, watching her hand out candy with her neighbor. He was thankful her friend had gone up and he was able to approach her quietly, alone, and drink up her enthusiasm at his surprise arrival.

"Tomorrow, we will take the jet back," he said into one of their brief lulls. She looked at him over her coffee.

"You brought a jet?"

He shrugged, feeling a bit pretentious, but wanting still to impress her. "It was the fastest way to get here."

She was looking at him incredulously. "You must have missed me."

"Yes," he told her sincerely, looking into her eyes. She had no idea; he felt relaxed, now that the Bank job was done, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps he had been more worried about the whole gig than he had let on, even to himself. Or maybe because he was anonymous here in Boston, and he could sit here and take Grace's hand in public, if he wanted, and no one would notice.

As he ran his thumb over her knuckles and felt his knee press against hers, he was overcome with the solidity of her, of their presence in time and space. Now that the Ocean job was done, he felt freer, as if things were possible that weren't before. Terry Benedict did not jump into things, but he felt himself pushing forward, wanting to live faster, more, with Grace. It was as if he was moving toward something, without knowing what that was. Perhaps it was something purely physical, which was definitely part of it at the moment – just being close to her here in a coffee shop had his blood running faster – but if it was something more, something like what he'd shared with Tess or beyond…then he was unable to think hard about it without worrying about what the future would hold.

"I missed you too, Terry," she was saying softly, and he bent to kiss her fingers in response, keeping their connection open.

They bought a few almond cookies to take back with them, and he followed her back out into the autumn chill.

"It's so beautiful here in New England. I never get tired of the seasons changing," Grace said wistfully, looking around at the trees and the swirling leaves. He had to admit, there was an old fashioned aura that was cozy and homey. Taking her hand, he walked next to her, silent, musing at what it would take to pull her away permanently from Boston, if her love of the city was so strong that Vegas could never be her true home.

"Have you ever thought of leaving Vegas?" his head came up. She must have been thinking along the same lines as he was.

"I don't know," he said. "I've never thought of it. My work has been in Vegas for so long I can't imagine not working or living there. I don't know where else I'd go."

"You aren't originally from there, though, are you?" she asked.

"No," he looked up at the trees. "I'm from Chicago, born and bred. There was a large Cuban community there, but I left young, to take fortune by the horns. Once I got to Vegas, I never thought about leaving."

"I grew up in New England," Grace offered. "Small town Maine. I love the weather, the sea, the smell of salt. Vegas is very fun, but the desert isn't."

He was silent, thinking about the changes she'd have to make to stay with him beyond the gala, wondering if she'd even consider it.

"Here we are," she started up the stairs to her apartment. He had forgotten how close they were to her place.

They came into the darkened hallway; he smelled soap and apple in her rooms and that faint watery scent that she wore. The smells made him think of her, her skin against his, and he pulled her closer, moving his hand around her waist, kissing her neck and temple, closing his eyes against her nearness. Yes, he'd missed her desperately.

"Terry," she said softly, turning to him. "I can't believe you're here, that you came to see me." She still sounded incredulous, amazed and touched, which was exactly what he was hoping.

"My Grace," he murmured. "I needed to see you. I couldn't wait any longer."

"One more day would have killed you?" she teased, twisting her arms around him, and laying her head over his heart.

"I didn't want to find out," he kissed the top of her head. She lifted her face, finally kissing him since she'd first set eyes on him earlier, and with that, he let the torrent of his passion rush forward.

She was overwhelmed with his obvious desire for her, with his romantic overtures, from his surprise arrival to his holding her hand in public. His arms were strong, holding her close and his mouth was insistent. Without turning on lights, she started to move them blindly toward the back bedroom, taking off his coat as the walked, kissing frantically.

It was as if it'd been weeks instead of days since their last moments in bed; it was hard for her to believe they'd been lovers for almost a month now; it still felt like the first time whenever they touched.

There were pauses in their kisses as they pulled off the thick sweaters and took off her boots, which he did by bending down next to the bed, tenderly sliding them off and running his hands up her legs as he did so.

How strange to have him there in her bed, peeling off her clothing layer by layer before he matched her, coming to meet her under her sheets. His scent mingled with hers, to see his face among the familiar heirlooms of her personal bedroom was strange and yet delightful, comforting.

His hands were everywhere, rubbing and touching, teasing and holding. She felt herself melt into his arms, pressing against his nakedness and knowing her desire for him would soon overpower her, that she would demand him to enter her, take her, drive her to release. His fingers were stroking her wetness, tantalizingly bringing her to the edge of orgasm, keeping a rhythm which matched her, and she reacted by grasping his member, taking her time, bringing him agonizingly close to spilling his seed in her hands. His moans were soft, and she loved to look up, see his face and his eyes closed in near ecstasy; his desire for her nearly made her lose control.

She surprised him by rolling on top, for the first time switching their positions, and slinging a leg over his waist, she settled herself over him and saw his eyes darken with lust, his breath coming fast and quick. She marveled that she did not feel self conscious, that she now knew he found her lovely despite her age, that her breasts were not as pert as the young girls he could have had.

Reaching between them, she slowly guided him into her, feeling the delicious heat of his entry, leaning over him as he pushed up, filling her completely – both of them let out a gasp of pleasure before starting to move together.

The change in position was sexual, hot, and she found herself unable to hold on long, finding her release powerfully, overwhelmed with the penetration, with his hands on her hips and breasts. As she cried out, pulsing with heat, she felt his body react, reaching to meet her as he emptied himself into her, his body shaking beneath her and his arms came up to pull her against him.

They were quiet for a while, letting themselves calm down, until she felt him chuckle, his chest rumbling below her.

"What is it?"

"I cannot believe how much I desire you, Grace."

"It's overpowering, isn't it?" she said, laughing a little with him, thinking that there were other words to describe it, but unable to think further than the touch of his hands on her back, the hardness of his legs intertwined with hers.

She woke the same way hours later, with his fingers still tangled in her hair where he'd been stroking it softly, and shifted off him carefully, letting him sleep.

Going to her bathroom, naked and cool, she glanced backward, seeing his form stretched out on the white sheets. Grace liked having him here in her room; a very powerful casino owner reduced to nothing but her man, her lover.

Checking for blood on the towels and finding none, she leaned back against the counter, thinking quietly about her situation, the changes in her life since meeting Terry. He had enriched her life, and she could not imagine him gone, could not bear to think how icy and cold her existence would be. And as she thought of this, she realized that she could still lose him, that his love for her was undeclared and his ties to her, regardless of what she held in her heart, were not promised.


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Terry raised his eyes to Danny Ocean, feeling anger spilling out of his shoulders and wishing he could jump up and react with the fury he felt. Instead, he forced himself to remain calm, almost sardonic as he picked up the piece of paper.

Seventy-two million donated to charity.

"You know this wasn't our deal."

Danny shrugged, flippantly answering. "And Toulour just happened to be on the roof at the exact time and place of the pick-up."

Terry didn't bat an eyelash. The Frenchman had already come in with news of the doublecross, that the diamond heist had been switched.

"How did you know I'd go for them?"

"Because you're you and I'm me."

He wasn't sure what Danny meant, but decided to leave what was obviously a derogatory comment alone.

"They're gonna have you up to thank you for your donation." Danny was already moving toward the door, and Terry glanced up, a bemused smile on his face, hiding his irritation.

"You think this is funny?"

Danny swung the door open. "Well, Terry, it sure as hell ain't sad."

As the office door closed, Terry found himself fuming and unable to unleash his anger at anything or anyone but himself for being a fool. What was he going to do with seventy two million donated to a charity up state? He'd be publicly humiliated now if he pulled the money out, but to let Danny get away with this trick was impossible. This entire heist was causing more problems than he knew what to do with. Running a hand along his lips, he tried and failed to think of how he could remedy the situation without drawing attention in both the thieves world and national press.

"Sir?"

It was Mary, his secretary, at his office door. She rarely entered without giving him notice, and he swung around, thoroughly annoyed.

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry to bother you sir, but I got a call from housekeeping. There's apparently been an accident in Ms Bery's suite."

"What?" he stood. "What do you mean, an accident?" He could hardly focus; his mind was still reeling with how Ocean's gang had stupefied him.

"Housekeeping was called up to take towels, sir. They're soaked in blood. They thought you should know."

She had barely finished as he moved past her, his security guards flanking him discretely as he moved to the elevators. His mind had stopped, finally, and was focused again, and on Grace. Outwardly, his expression hadn't changed, but his stomach was clenching, filling with fear.

By the time the elevator opened, he dismissed the security guards with a flick of his hand, inserting his key and barging in unannounced.

The door slammed behind him. "Grace! Grace, where are you?"

He felt the heat before he heard the shower, and went in without thinking. On the floor was a snowy towel with bright red stains, and he picked it up gingerly.

"Grace."

"My God!" her hand appeared at the corner of the shower curtain, followed by her face. Water was streaming from her hair. "Terry! What are you doing here?"

"What's this?" He held up the towel. She closed her eyes briefly, then disappeared back into the shower to turn it off. Mindlessly, as if he couldn't process the fear running through him powerfully, he picked up a fresh towel and handed it to her through the shower. There was a brisk wiping sound, and then Grace appeared. He took her hand with his free one to help her out, taking care that she didn't slip on the wet marble. She kept her eyes down, noting the towel he still held.

"How—did you know? Who told you?"

"Housekeeping," he said shortly. "Nothing happens in my hotels without my knowing of it, Grace. You should know that by now."

She hugged the towel closer, and tried to move out, but he held her in a tight grip, her hand trapped in his.

"Grace."

Slowly, she brought her eyes up to his, and her shoulders sank. He'd never seen her in such dishevelment, even after making love to her, she'd never looked so wild.

"Has someone hurt you?" he stepped closer, putting his hand around her terry covered waist. She felt small in his arms. "Tell me, Grace."

She sighed, then brought her face to his. He was surprised to see tears in the corners of her eyes.

"No, Terry, no one has hurt me. And…oh damn," she swore lightly. "I had hoped to wait just a little longer, and now to tell you like this…"

He found his patience wearing thin, perhaps it was more thin today of all days; his nerves were definitely on edge more than usual.

"Grace," he couldn't help but put warning in his tone, and with that the tears spilled from her eyes.

"I was pregnant," she blurted, then brought a hand to her eyes. "I was four weeks pregnant with our baby, until this morning," she swept her hands to include the bloody towel he still held. "Until I lost it."

The shock of this was more than anything he'd heard all day, and he dropped the towel, dropped his hands from her, and stood silently, unmoving, as she put both hands to her face before turning away and leaving him standing in the steamy bathroom.

Pregnant! He didn't know what to think next; today had spun him in more directions than he cared to remember, but this was the biggest shock and surprise yet. His child, Grace was pregnant with his own child. A legacy.

He followed her, finding her already dressed, but in a black, figuring hugging frock. He'd never seen her in black, and he stood in the doorway, watching her towel her hair dry and pull it into a messy bun, and smooth lotion on her legs.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She stopped moving, still hardly looking at him. "I had a doctor appointment coming up; it took a while to get one here in Vegas through my insurance. I was only three weeks late, but I wanted to be sure, Terry, I—." He watched her eyes fill with tears again, and though she looked away, he moved in and crouched down next to her, his hands on her knees.

"What happened?"

Her hands came up helplessly. "I—it just—I miscarried. Simple as that. But it was a clean one, I—I suppose I should still go in to see the doctor." She gave a small strange laugh. "I just can't believe it happened so easily – I mean, it was in France, and it was so quick…I haven't been using protection all this time, I thought I didn't need it."

"You conceived in France?" he seemed only to grasp certain pieces of her story. He kept thinking strange visions; of Grace pregnant, rosy and round with his child, of having a child of his own to care for, to raise his way. Of a family. As strange and frightening as the whole idea was, he didn't find himself repulsed.

She was nodding, miserable. "Yes. I—Paul's cancer stopped his chance of having children, but even before then—."

He stood, moving away from her. "I know about the D and C, Grace."

She stood as well, frozen by the side of the bed. "The background report."

Nodding, he turned back to face her. "This has happened before?"

"Once. Paul and I conceived once, after many years of waiting. But I lost it, and needed the operation to take care of it…well, it's never been easy, and so I just figured I couldn't conceive, at least not well."

Terry couldn't help but feel himself fill with a very weird pride; he could match Grace, could best her late husband and that his own seed could take root so quickly in her. He found himself strangely aroused with the idea of Grace, pregnant with his child, and a full sensation hit him in the chest.

"But you did. We did," he amended, feeling odd saying it, realizing that he had been a father, if even for a few weeks. It was a very peculiar, otherworldly sensation.

She nodded, squeezing her hands tightly, whispering softly, "I was looking forward to telling you, but I have to admit I was growing desperately worried about it. What if you didn't want a child? What if you didn't want to keep me so permanently in your life? So many changes…" she trailed off, her eyes still red rimmed with tears.

"My Grace," he stepped to her, unable to keep his hands off of her now. "I don't know what to tell you, it's so sudden and strange to hear of this." He kissed her forehead. "But the idea of children…I've always wanted them. I just have never gotten around to settling down."

He held her tightly, caressing her, closing his eyes against the softness of her cheek, the smell of soap lingering in her damp hair. Lifting her chin to his, he kissed her carefully, tasting her tears. He felt the old desire run through him, and she must have noticed his arousal against her hip and pushed away slightly.

"We can't, Terry. I'm still bleeding." Her eyes held his, and he nodded, understanding – worry raced back into his mind.

"You need to get to the hospital."

"I suppose," she sighed, but still kept her arms around his neck, as if she couldn't bear to let go. "Will you come with me?"

He hesitated, unsure how he would explain such a situation to doctors when he remembered the hospital's code of secrecy and patient privacy. "Yes, Grace. I'll call us a car."

But still they didn't move, and he kept her near, realizing how close his life had come to changing completely and utterly in a few moments, how suddenly Grace would have been forever instilled in his life. He did not mind the idea at all.

Her eyes were closed as he held her, and she almost missed the beginning of his dissembling; his voice was so soft.

"I never had a chance to think seriously of children," he was saying musingly. "I knew I wanted a family, I wanted it all…but I could never find a woman, could never make it work. Nothing seemed to work."

She moved slightly in his arms, so that she could meet his eyes, but she didn't speak, knowing innately that Terry was confiding to her, that the shock of her miscarriage had jarred open his tongue.

She had been growing more excited – her joy often overshadowed by worry – but excited nonetheless, about her potential pregnancy. It was when the blood had started that she knew both things; that she had been carrying Terry's baby, and that she had lost it.

"Grace, my love, I am not entirely certain how I could have been a father, had you asked me five years ago, or had Tess gotten pregnant. And thankfully she didn't, now considering how her asshole ex-husband has screwed me over once again."

She stopped adjusting in his arms, and pulled back, knowing that he was touching on business, on the things she dared never ask about but always knew was there, simmering under the surface.

He gave an exhausted sigh, and sat slowly into the chair of the bedroom just as his cell phone rang. Taking a quick look at the number, he opened it discretely.

"Yes, Burt, everything's fine, thank you. I need a car in an hour." Clicking it shut, he reached out a hand to her, and she went to him to settle on his lap. Her head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck, and she found herself running a hand up and down his chest as he began, haltingly, to admit the stunningly intricate plots and grudges surrounding himself, Tess, and her husband.

She listened, forcing herself not to react when he spoke about the heist of his casino, how he'd gotten even, and how the trip to France and the hiring of Toulour had been part of an intricate double cross in a game when they were all supposed to work together against a local casino owner that Grace had heard of, but hadn't thought about. Terry sounded more irritated about the way he had been tricked by Danny Ocean than about the fact that they'd all broken a lot of laws, and she tried not to panic about what would happen if the authorities ever heard about this. She heard the anger in his voice as he talked about how seventy-two million dollars were in his name at a charity, unable to get back into his pocket and into the casino. She realized by him telling her all of this, she'd been taken into his confidence, perhaps more deeply than ever. Perhaps it was his way of managing his reaction to her pregnancy, that by carrying his child, she'd brought herself into his inner circle of most trusted people, finally. She hadn't realized how much went on in his life that he'd kept secret from her.

It was frightening.

And now she knew why he had been so upset at boxing night; he'd worried that the same thing would have happened again.

"So, now I'm not sure what to do," he admitted, and it was odd to hear him defeated, uncertain. "All that money gone to charity. They want me up there in a week to thank me. I'm not interested in being thanked; I want my money back."

Grace shrugged and sat up, putting a hand on his shoulder, then his cheek. "Why not capitalize on it?"

He eyed her warily. "How?"

"Well, not everyone just gives money to charities, and definitely not that much. Your public relations people should get you on TV, at the very least on Oprah, to talk about this. People would be so impressed, they'd come to Vegas and support your properties and casinos over others, you'd get national recognition. The money will come back, just not all at once."

He stared at her, a thumb absently stroking her hand, before giving a dry laugh. "Grace, you might have nailed something. I'll make a few calls today."

His cell phone chirped again, and he glanced at it. "James is ready."

She stood from him, and he followed, his hand on her back as they left the suite. She felt herself grow tired, drained, almost immediately. The loss of blood had been unexpected and scary, but she knew going to the hospital was the only option now, as much as she wanted to just go to bed and sleep. She was grateful that Terry had agreed to go with her, and knew that while he wasn't coddling her, his presence at the hospital was how he supported the whole ordeal.

They moved quietly along the lobby, and she wondered which staff had called up the bloody towels. Part of her was embarrassed and appalled that they kept such tabs on her, but the other part of her felt protected and cared for. She wondered if they did it because it was their duty or because they cared about her as a person.

She shook her head slightly at herself. Ridiculous to speculate. Terry was holding the door open for her, making sure she was in, and then had climbed in the other side, moving in tightly so their legs touched and he could put both his arms around her stomach.

Settling in, she leaned against him, taking in the familiar scent of his cars; leather and cigar ash.

"I'm sorry, Terry," she heard herself say, then was surprised she'd even said it. "I'll be more careful from now on. The doctor should be able to give me oral contraceptives."

"No need," he said, and she pulled away to look at him, puzzled. "Don't bother, Grace."

She cocked her head to the side. What was this? He would manage the contraceptives? Grace had a hard time seeing Terry pause to wear a condom during their lovemaking. But today, she was too proud to ask, and too stubborn to find out his plans.

Deciding to keep quiet, she settled back against him again, and enjoyed the soft rub of his fingers on her belly, caressing her, as if he still expected a baby to be there, as if the idea of it didn't repulse him as she'd been afraid it might.


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Terry found himself staring out the windows as the woods flashed by. He found himself thinking back to the day that Grace miscarried. It'd been two weeks, and all was well with her, health-wise, though he'd been afraid to make love to her since. Tonight he planned to change that; she had become more daring with her touches and he couldn't abstain from her any longer.

They were on their way to the camp; his appearance on Oprah had happened three days before, and he had taken Grace with him when they'd had to fly to Chicago. His interview had been slightly uncomfortable, and he'd spoken vaguely about "what they're doing up there" and "looking into a child's face," which had made him think about Grace and their baby again. Over the past weeks, the idea of becoming a father had fermented in his mind. He'd decided he wanted that, wanted children.

Now, on their way to the camp itself, he looked over at Grace. She was looking trim in her white suit, his diamond necklace sparkling at her throat and her hair professionally done up. They knew there would be reporters there, that they had to look polished. It would be her first public appearance as his woman, his girlfriend. He knew she was nervous and excited about it.

"Are you ready?" he asked her, as they turned into the campground.

She flashed him her old smile, the one without the trace of worry or sadness that had settled around her since her miscarriage. He found himself smirking back.

"Ready for small crazy children to be petrified of me…until they decide I won't shout at them and then they'll want to climb all over me? I can't wait." There was no sarcasm in her voice, however, and they arrived to find the entire camp turned out on the front steps of the main cabin, singing songs.

"Mr. Benedict. Ms. Bery. Thank you for coming!" The head counselor met them, and drew them into the building, where he smelled old macaroni and coffee and under it all, the refreshing scent of grass and earth.

They heard the children sing a bit, and then they were given tour of the camp by some of the older kids, who all seemed a little scared of him and in awe of Grace. By the time the tour was finished, her hands were each taken by two children of probably five or six years old. She bent down to speak to them, and then was ushered by excited children to see the small beach by one of the lakes.

Terry stayed on the patio with the counselor, and while he listened to the woman blather on about what kind of things they were able to do with his money, his eyes were on Grace; her white clad figure obvious against the blue and green of the outdoors and the colorful shirts of the small children capering around her legs. She was laughing, joyful and carefree, and he found himself chuckling as one of the kids wrapped her arms completely around Grace's leg, making it impossible for her to walk.

He realized the counselor had stopped talking, and he turned back to her to see the older woman looking at him with a knowing smile.

"Ms. Bery is very good with children," she said, perhaps in an effort to draw him out. Terry gave a small smile and nodded. He was determined not to give more personal information than was necessary, but couldn't help adding,

"She's a fine woman."

With that, he nodded to the group of children, "Shall we?"

The counselor followed him down to the lawn, and as he approached them, he heard Grace laughing, and then joking with one of the older children, who hung back but still looked as if they wanted to join in. They turned when they saw him approach, and all the kids started to hang back, his dark imposing presence was definitely something they were not accustomed to seeing.

"Well, what do you think, Terry?" she asked him. "Should the kids have a free day today? It's a celebration that we're here – and it's going to get hotter. Swim day?"

"I think that's in order," he said, and found himself the center of a cheering pack of kids. The counselor, knowing she would be overruled and inclined to agree with the camp's biggest donor, shouted for all the kids to run to get their suits, then turned to her walkie to start issuing instructions to her staff.

Shortly after that, they were able to leave, and he had to laugh at how relieved Grace looked by the time they got into the car.

"Too much for you?"

"It's a lot of children," she admitted, but her cheeks were flushed with outdoors and laughter and he finally felt himself be able to say,

"I'd like that for us. I want to have children. With you, Grace."

She swung to look at him, and he was glad James had the partition up, because her eyes had filled with heavy tears, and Terry preferred to let only himself see Grace vulnerable like this.

"Terry." He took her hand as she paused. "We can't, you know."

Her decline of his offer made his heart stop and he half cursed himself for being so weak. What did this mean? He had thought she'd want this; she had admitted to being excited about their first child. What had changed? Had something happened between them, something he was too obtuse to notice?

"You don't like the idea of having my baby."

"It's not that," she had regained control of her tears and looked at him fully. "I desperately want your children. I'd love it; to create a family with you would be wonderful. But it would be an illusion. If I am to be a mother, I'd like to be a legitimate one."

"A legit—." He paused, and looked at her closely. She was alluding to a commitment, perhaps even to marriage. Terry would not go there in this discussion – he'd shown enough of his mind and heart for one day; as much as he cared for Grace, knowing her for barely three months was not long enough for him. It didn't matter that she'd fallen into his life seamlessly, that he couldn't think about when she'd leave for Boston permanently. To make such a promise to her would be false on his part, and he held his tongue. To her credit, Grace left it there as well. He knew now, innately, that had their child been carried full term, as much as she would have wanted to marry him, she would not have forced him, would not have used their child as power over him. It was not her way.

Feeling a little deflated and strangely helpless, he pulled her close instead, and held her in his arms the whole way back to the city.


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Thanksgiving was in two days, and Grace was finally able to use her kitchen. She looked at the clock, knowing that Terry would be arriving soon. His whiskey was fixed and she was already sipping a scotch.

They had been living as if they were married, ever since she'd lost the baby. And while their lovemaking had been less, Grace didn't mind. She now knew that she would conceive, and easily, with Terry. And while they still did not use protection – a part of her knew it was because Terry wanted children and he would not do anything on his part to stop that from happening – she tried to time their intimacy to limit the chances of a pregnancy. He didn't ask when she'd rebuffed him early last week, gently, though he had looked at her questioningly, he had not questioned her refusal to bed him. By the time the weekend came, she could allow herself to fall back into the delight of his arms, and the passion had been greater than she remembered.

There was a soft knock, and then Terry walked in, and she went to greet him, taking him his whiskey and a kiss.

"How was work today?" she could finally ask such a question, and he would give answers now. Ever since they'd shared the loss of the baby, ever since he finally had opened up about his many facets of work, their conversations came naturally, easy. At first this quick lapse into routine and structure had frightened her. Perhaps he would tire of her now. But as the days went by, she started to realize that schedules were Terry's preferred way of managing his life, that had she been a spontaneous type of woman, he would not be spending time with her. He preferred the domesticity of their arrangement, and that gave her hope, even though it was small.

"It was the same," he gave a brief answer today, but downed the whiskey quickly, tersely, and she paused in rearranging work folders and looked up.

"The same?"

He shook his head. "Underground murmurs, there is talk that Bank is trying to find out who did the heist."

She stopped moving. "The diamonds."

He touched her face softly. "No need to worry, my love. My hands are clean. But I still wrote a check, and the overtures to charity were hardly in keeping with my character. If Bank is any kind of conniver, which I know he is, he'd try to piece it all together."

"You're safe, though?" she followed him into the sitting area, another whiskey in hand, and he took it from her but didn't drink it. She felt worry creep into her gut, a frantic worry that she remembered from her married days. It was deep and familiar.

He looked up at her as he sat, and she saw by the amused quirk of his brow that he appreciated her concern.

"Nothing is traced to me yet, Grace."

The 'yet' part is what worried her, but she knew now to hold her tongue; any other questions would be considered nagging, and she made it a point to keep herself from becoming a meddling girlfriend.

"Well, tomorrow is Thanksgiving," she hedged, moving to another sticky subject instead. She slid in next to him, her slinky white dress hugged her frame and accented her bosom; she saw him take a long look at her before turning to the Vegas skyline.

"So it is."

"I—I thought we could do dinner."

"Where would you like?"

"No—not out. Here. In the suite. I really would like to use that kitchen. Perhaps we might want to invite some guests?"

He gave her an appraising look. "And who do you know to invite?"

She gave a half shrug; she had hoped he would have some ideas. "Perhaps a client? Or staff? Not many – two or four should be all that fit, and I can't do a full turkey, but—."

She was cut off when he unexpectedly leaned in to kiss her. He tasted of whiskey and cigar and spice. Her body reacted strongly, as usual, and before long they were locked together, their drinks forgotten, as she straddled him where he sat, making love fast and deliciously. Grace took his hot face in her hands, capturing his lips, stroking back his hair. She could not believe how she reacted to him, how her passions erupted so quickly in his presence, how intimate their lives were shared in the seclusion of their rooms. If anyone was watching them in public, they'd never know.

Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, his hands settling loosely over her hips, she smiled into his shirt.

"What was that for?"

"What do you mean?"

She glanced up at his chin. "I barely got out that I was making turkey and you couldn't keep your hands off me. If I'd have known you liked turkey so much, I would have suggested cooking a long time ago."

His chuckle was a deep rumble under her, and she absently played with the buttons on his vest, waiting for his answer. It came quietly, slowly,

"It sounded wonderful, Grace. Thanksgiving dinner. I haven't had one in ages, at least one homemade. Got a little sentimental."

She closed her eyes against the implied message in his response, but didn't press for more. Instead, she put casually, "So will it be a traditional gathering with friends or family?"

"No family. But I suppose I could round up a friend or two."

That night over dinner in the hotel, Terry told her about his holiday traditions growing up in the Cuban neighborhoods of Chicago, and while they shared a cigar, she talked about her dream Christmas. While this one would not be white – the desert made it impossible – it would be at least a happy one, with him. He smiled softly at her over the table at that, but did not lean in to touch her hand.

"Grace, this is Charles, my casino manager, and his wife Elizabeth." Terry ushered in his highest ranking employee to Grace's suite, and felt a little strange doing so. No one, save him and the housekeeping staff, had ever crossed into what he considered his especial property. Grace's realm was also his, and he guarded it carefully. But Grace wanted a Thanksgiving, and truth be told, so did he. If this meant being a little casual with his staff, so be it. Terry Benedict did not have friends.

Thankfully, Charles had nodded yesterday when approached about coming up for Thanksgiving dinner. He had felt strange making the invitation, and perhaps Charles felt he could not refuse his boss's request, no matter how it put him out. So they had arrived at his office promptly at seven and he had taken them up immediately.

Elizabeth was a woman who aged beautifully. Her hair was snow white, but her eyes were a twinkling brown and he felt himself at ease with her, regardless of the fact that Charles was still very aware of their stations.

"Sir, I must thank you again for this invitation," he was saying as they entered Grace's rooms, but Terry didn't have a chance to respond because suddenly Grace was there. She was wearing color – a deep blue dress he'd never seen – and she looked flushed and happy. It was all he could do to keep from reaching out to kiss her.

"Welcome, please come in!"

They were relieved of purses and work folders, and Grace brought them all drinks to match their quick order. The whole suite smelled deliciously of roasting meat and vegetables, and Terry found himself overwhelmed once again with the domesticity of the whole arrangement. If he tried very hard, he could imagine that this was a home, not a room in a hotel, and that it was his and Grace's. He wondered at the actual possibility of this as he sipped his whiskey, and moved as one with Charles to the big windows overlooking Vegas.

"Well, sir, do you think the casino will run itself tonight without one of us watching?" Charles asked.

"I certainly hope so. Why else pay all the other staff?"

Charles smiled at him, confident, but quieter than usual. He seemed unsure of his station, which became more obvious with his next comment, "Elizabeth and I were very honored with this invitation, sir. I didn't know you would take time for the holiday."

Terry found himself slightly tempted to speak frankly, but years of training held him back. Glancing at the kitchenette, where Grace and Elizabeth were smiling and chatting like old friends despite their age difference, he watched her move turkey out of the small oven. Charles followed his gaze, then said quietly,

"She's a very good woman, Mr. Benedict."

He was about to retort on how Charles could possibly know that, when Grace called them into the table. She had gone and found linens; he knew that the suite hadn't been stocked. But as she fussed about the wine, and handed him the carving knife, continuing her conversation about traditional stuffing with Elizabeth, he understood implicitly that she was in her element.

Terry wondered, as he took up the knife to carve the very small turkey, if he could ever guarantee her this; it was what she deserved and what she wanted, but he wasn't sure if it was something he'd want.

As the wine poured out, and the food was eaten slowly, Elizabeth and Grace drew the men out. Terry found himself siding with Charles over an argument about whether men made bigger messes in kitchens, even though the last time he'd cooked was a faraway childhood memory. Charles relaxed as Grace drew him out, and he leaned back in his chair, missing only his cigar, but partaking in the banter with enjoyment.

"Mr. Benedict and I never have need to ask for directions," Charles was teasing; they'd moved into a different topic. "We always know where we are."

"That's quite true," he added, and Grace quirked an eyebrow at him across the table. She was smiling, happier than he'd seen in weeks. For once, his passion for her was in check and he instead found himself content to look at her, share her with others. The contentment overwhelmed him.

"Well, if that's the case, then we can do without our GPS," Elizabeth said, smiling slyly at Charles. The older man smiled back at her, his eyes warm. Terry watched them, interested, a finger to his lips. This is what thirty years looked like. Thirty good years. Glancing again at Grace, he saw she was looking at him with a small smile too, and he returned it, unaware that the look he gave her was exactly the same as the one Charles gave Elizabeth.

"I think that went rather well," Grace said to Terry. She felt herself filled with happiness; Terry had been very cordial for the better part of the evening, but then had calmed down considerably once dinner had begun. Deciding to forget about his stiffness, she focused on the fact that he had, quite easily, warmed up to the holiday, and the guests, by the time the pie had come around.

He put down his whiskey, and helped her move dishes into the sink.

"I did not know what to expect. It's been a long time since I had a proper Thanksgiving. Thank you, Grace."

She felt him behind her, reaching around her with the last few plates, but he paused, an arm coming around her waist, and she felt him breathe in as he held her. He'd kept his hands off of her the entire time they'd had guests, and she knew even asking others to share in their time had been a difficult thing for him.

"Thank you for inviting Charles and Elizabeth. They're a very sweet couple."

She turned in his arms to face him, leaning back against the counter. "To think that if we were in Boston, right now there'd be snow, and it'd be a cozy thing; perhaps next there'd be whiskey laced hot chocolate."

"I think there's been enough whiskey," he said lowly, and she closed her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her. Perhaps it was the drinks, the wine and the scotch together with the delicious meal sitting in her stomach, but tonight Terry's touch was hyper sensual, sexual, and she forgot all about the dishes as he took her to her bedroom and they made love into the early hours of the morning.


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

It was snowing in Boston for her early December wedding. Grace arrived to ice and several inches on the front step of her place. Walking in, after leaving it weeks ago with Terry, it felt quiet and lonely. The last time she'd been home, she had suspected she was pregnant. So much had happened since then.

Her iPhone rang. Glancing at it, she smiled. It was Terry; he wanted to know if she'd arrived safely. She wouldn't dare to point it out, but he was very much turning into an old married man, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he liked it. It was the question of how serious he was about giving up all aspects of his life that Grace wondered about, though she was too proud to ever bring up marriage unless he did first.

Once off the phone with him, she called Shannon to check in. She'd take the noon train into the office to get finalizing the wedding and the travel plans for her staff out to Vegas for the gala at the Bellagio.

"Well, done for the year," Shannon came to stand next to her as they watched the couple make their first dance memorable. Grace smiled, keeping her eyes on the bride and groom as they held each other with the strange, overwhelmed looks that all newlyweds had. Taken aback by the love they were surrounded with, by the fact that they were legally bound, and that the big day had finally arrived; she had rarely met the bride who didn't spend most of her day in a state of happy shock.

"Done with weddings," Grace amended, and Shannon gave a small sigh. "The Bellagio job will take a lot of work in the next three weeks."

"I know. And I get to meet Terry." Shannon had not mentioned this all week, in deference to getting the work done for the wedding, but now she was able to warm into the subject. "This is going to be fascinating, watching you with him."

"Don't expect much. He's very professional."

Shannon quirked an eyebrow. "But in private…"

She let the sentence hang, but Grace felt a stab of worry mixed with wonder. She was used to making her own hours in Vegas and her own schedule, and having her evenings free to be alone with Terry. She wondered how he would react to having Shannon underfoot for a week of meetings.

Grace straightened, catching the eye of the bandleader. There was a question to be answered there, and she took a quick leave of Shannon to discuss whether now would be an appropriate time to introduce the mother and son dance.

There were few other mishaps that evening, and she got home a little earlier than usual. Tomorrow she'd be heading back to Nevada, and she felt the worry of the gala sink over her. There were still so many large details to confirm, and so many pieces to put together. She worried about it being perfect for so many reasons, and found that she couldn't sleep. Tapping her fingers on her desk, she broke down and picked up the phone. He answered almost immediately.

"Hello, Grace."

"Terry," she couldn't keep the sigh from her voice.

"Is anything wrong?" The more she knew him, the more she could read the nuances in his voice. His question had genuine worry.

"I just miss you."

"Good. You'll be back tomorrow?"

"Yes. Bright and early."

"What time? I'll have James there."

"Oh Terry."

"Don't argue, you know that, Grace."

"I'll arrive by eleven."

"James will be waiting. I have to go, Grace."

She heard muffled voices on the other end and realized he was still on the floor. They hung up very quickly, and she looked around the apartment again. It had started to snow outside, and she made some tea, deciding she may as well work since she couldn't sleep. Standing by her window, holding the steaming mug, she thought about her life in Boston, and how her life no longer was rooted in one place. What was she to do?

Terry was not interested in creating permanent ties, and if she stayed with him, and made herself extra available, she'd be no better than a kept woman. Whenever he tired of her, he would be able to be rid of her. While Grace didn't believe that Terry's attachment to her was so superficial, she had her business to consider. She'd rather throw herself back into the steadiness of work than live on the brink of uncertainty. She knew about living with uncertainty and had no intentions of living with such feelings again, if she could help it.


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

He found her in her suite; it was later than usual – almost midnight – but he'd had a few things to see to that were not entirely on the schedule. The rumblings underground had grown. Willy Bank was getting inquisitive.

She had fallen asleep on the couch; folders and paperwork and half written post-it notes were everywhere; she must have pulled it all out when it became apparent he wasn't going to show up at ten. He liked that she hadn't called him, demanding to know where he was. She trusted him, that was true. It was a powerful feeling.

When she laid there, stretched out, he found himself devouring her with his eyes. He never seemed to get enough of her. Bending slowly at the knees, he came to squat next to her, to look at her as she slept. Her skin had taken on a bronze color, from afternoons by the pool, but he followed the curves of her breasts and hips through the thin fabric of her dress. Reaching out, without thinking, he brushed a hand lightly over her stomach, wondering once again what it would have been like to have Grace pregnant with his baby. He'd thought of this idea so many times that it'd become an obsession, that he knew he wanted it. It was Grace now who held back.

As he touched her, she woke, and her eyes found his palm as he laid it flat against the low cavity between her hip bones.

"How I desire you, Grace," he said, adding, "And you know I desire our children."

She nodded, and sat up; his hand fell away slowly from her warmth. Reaching out, she took his face in her hands and kissed his eyes and forehead before meeting his mouth.

"I do know that, darling. It is a lovely dream."

They kissed again, until he broke it off, standing rather abruptly. He had lately started to wonder if men like Willy Bank ever found out he hand children, if the man would use them as leverage. Would having a family compromise him, even more so than he already was with Grace? The thought was terrifying.

"What is it?"

He moved away with from her, his mind managing all the other possibilities that tagged along his musings. He knew what he wanted; logistically planning it would become a focus. He glanced at her as she stood, clearing her dress, watching him stoically. His mood swings no longer fazed her, but she knew when to be wary. No other woman had ever understood him quite so fully, no had touched his life so easily. It was the least he could do to explain something of his mind to her.

"There's issues with Willy Bank. It throws things into stark relief."

Grace waited for him to continue, and he turned back to her to take her hands.

"You know that I want our children. You want something from me – something permanent."

She looked away, but he tightened his grip on her hands, willing her to look at him. After a moment, she met his eyes and he continued, matter-of-factly:

"I cannot give you that. If anything ever gets to Bank about my involvement, he would use you as leverage. I could—if you were hurt on my account—I cannot guarantee that my business will always be entirely legitimate. There may always be issues that could hurt you."

"Then you must not wish for children as much as you say – they'd also be in this danger you speak of, you know this They would require sacrifice, change, and they would always be a potential lever for your enemies."

Terry frowned, following where her mind was heading. Her eyes suddenly looked brighter; he watched her breathing catch.

"Perhaps—perhaps it would be easier then, for your business…if there were no complications at all, however rosy they might look right now. I—I can leave you be, I have no hold over you—."

"Stop it!" he growled at her, releasing her hands to grab her close. He looked down at her face; a face that was not classically beautiful, but pretty—to him her face represented comfort and she was lovely to him. He pressed a kiss to her cheekbone, where the sun had darkened her freckles, and leaned his forehead against hers before pulling back to look her in the eye again. "Grace, I'm not ending this on account of Bank. I love you. I won't allow it."

He hardly registered what he said before she had thrown her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. It caught him off guard; she rarely made the first move, and her body felt hot under his hands. Her kiss was hard, breathless. It made him pause, and suddenly he realized how much he meant his declaration of love, and how long she had waited to hear it from him.

Slowly finishing the kiss, he put his hands on her shoulders, looking in her eyes. "Wait, Grace, wait. I am serious. My enemies would use you, could hurt you. I won't put you - our children - in that position."

She stared at him, placing her fingers on his cheeks.

"So why wish for children? Then what are we doing?"

Her question, fair and direct, had him pause. Automatically, and due to habit, his mind returned to business; he would not let emotions rule this discussion as it was one he took seriously, though he found himself unprepared to have it. Dropping his hands, knowing that by touching her – she was distracting enough without physical contact.

"Terry…"

He ignored her, moving away and running a hand on his mouth, one hand on his hip. Unable to stop himself from being truthful with her, but hating where his mind had jumped so quickly, he stopped moving and looked out the large windows where Vegas glittered and gleamed below.

"There is nothing more to discuss, Grace. Not now."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her skip a breath, a hand out to grasp his arm, but he moved further away, knowing that he needed to get away, to think. So suddenly had things shifted for him. His love for her recognized, his desire for their children welling in his chest, but unable to be brought to fruition. Shaking his head, he went to the door, leaving his untouched whiskey where she had poured it earlier.

"Wait!" she'd followed him, her eyes wildly trying to catch his. "I don't understand what's just happened between us. Terry, please, I—I lov—."

Whirling on her, he grabbed her tightly to him, kissing her fiercely, briefly, "Yes, Grace, I know. What I need to know now is whether I can keep you safe, no matter the love."

He opened the door abruptly and strode through it, taking his elevator down, back to his office, back to where things were usual, uninterrupted, and in place. He sat in his chair, swiveling to face the large painting behind his desk and he lit a cigar.

The fact that the two things he wanted – Grace and children – would and could easily become his largest and least expendable weakness was terrifying. Terry had always had a relationship first and foremost with money; something easily replaced and cold. He'd had inklings of this before, but never had he truly thought about what kind of danger he'd be placing her in if he married her. Marriage was only on his mind because he knew it would make her happy, and her happiness had become his. Growling low in his throat, he smashed the end of the cigar and went up to his suite. It was the first time in months that he had voluntarily slept apart from Grace.


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

It was nearly Christmas, and Grace was a week late. She was also deep into coordinating the New Year's gala at the Bellagio and was therefore able to bury herself in work that she didn't really think much of it, nor how she would handle a second miscarriage or needing to hide her aversion to alcohol from Terry. He had kept busy himself, rarely calling her. They'd slept apart every night now for two weeks, and Grace missed him more than she ever expected.

His lack of attentions only spurred her to work harder, crunching numbers and haggling deals to get more bang for her buck; she had extremely high expectations for this event and knew he would too. She planned to smash them all – and be ten times more fabulous than anyone had ever seen. Besides, when left to her own devices, Grace knew only how to work.

Shannon would be arriving a few days after Christmas, and while Grace longed to leave Vegas and head to Boston for family gatherings, there was simply far too much work to do. Acrobats had to be scheduled, costumes approved and the food sampled. Half of her time was spent screening potential entertainment, and her iPhone bill was wracking up fast.

Heading back up to her suite, late, she opened the door to be greeted with a strange and familiar scent. Dropping her bag, she wandered in until she found what she was looking for. A large, true pine tree was set up overlooking the large glass windows. It had already been decorated too, and she smiled as she saw the playing cards hanging from fine threads. It must have cost Terry a small fortune to get a live tree out in Nevada.

Feeling a little sentimental, and missing him, she put on some old Christmas tunes, and went to the kitchenette to make an evening tea.

As she sipped the hot liquid, she thought back to his very first gift to her – the diamond bracelet. She wondered what had ever happened to it after she had given it back. Tilting her head, she stared at the intricately decorated branches. Before he had completely freaked out with her, she would have felt entirely comfortable calling him now, thanking him for the beautiful tree.

She still was confused on what had made him change so suddenly. Used to his moods, she hadn't understood how serious he was until he hadn't come back at all that night. Was he really so worried about putting her in danger? It was a little late for that; everyone seemed to know she was his girl. Had he not thought about the consequences of love, of children? It seemed so unlike him.

Staring at her phone, she bit her lip. It would be nice to see him, even briefly. Slipping back into her heels, she went to grab her purse. She'd find him on the floor and thank him. She was dressed well enough in one of her winter white dresses; blue shoes completed the look. Taking the elevator down to the pits was easy enough. Finding him was another.

Wandering around aimlessly, she wondered if the men in the computer rooms were watching her, if they knew who she was. It was slightly disconcerting.

Cameras flashed in the center of the lobby, and she made her way over, just to see the fuss. There were a large haggle of beautiful, toweringly tall, thin women, and their handlers. Beyond that, security and paparazzi. A few men in suits were there, obvious high rollers, or even part of Terry's staff; Grace could never be quite sure.

A wave of nausea flowed over her, and she put a hand to her stomach just as one of the men turned; it was Terry, with one of his fingers hovering in the air just above one of the model's lower back.

Grace felt a lead weight sink into her lungs, as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She knew she was being irrational, that the men – and probably the women – were clients. But to see him in their midst, thoroughly enjoying himself, made her wonder what he'd been doing all these nights. Did he realize that a serious commitment with her was far too difficult on too many levels? Was this fast, frivolous life a better match for his style? Suddenly uncertain about everything, she put her head to the side and walked past indifferently. She had a sudden craving for bonbons, and there was just the place in the Venetian.

For the third time, the call went straight to voicemail.

"Damn."

"Sir, perhaps she is in a casino. There's very little service in most," Charles was at his side, speaking quietly and discretely. Terry looked up at him, scowling.

Grace had walked by in the lobby an hour ago, but there was no sign of her back yet. He wouldn't have cared, except even in the distance, he had seen her pale face, a hand to her stomach, and he had supposed the worst.

Was she ill? Had someone hurt her?

He was inclined to follow her when he'd seen her, but his clients had demanded his full attention, getting themselves and their many mistresses in line. But he'd seen her, had marked her instantly, and it had been like a punch in the gut to realize that he didn't know where she was going, who she was meeting at this hour.

Fear gripped him. It was Vegas, and most of the men who ran it now knew that Grace Bery was romantically involved with Terry Benedict. They knew who she was, what she preferred to wear, what color her cell phone was – everything. He didn't think Bank would make a move, at least not yet, and he wished he would have had James to take her – wherever she was going.

The phone chirped, and he flipped it open without looking at the caller id.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Benedict. Ms. Bery has returned."

The relief must have shown on his face, though he thought he was schooled enough to block it. Charles gave a small nod and sigh, then turned away.

"Thank you, Charlotte." He clapped the phone shut, then turned back to the floor and flipped open the folder. "Well, then, about the day's take."

He glanced over to see Charles looking at him benignly. "Sir, perhaps we can finish this later in the evening?"

Grinding his teeth, Terry narrowed his eyes. "Do you have an appointment to be elsewhere right now, Chuck? The day's take, if you please."

If his right-hand man was surprised, he didn't show it. They bent over the numbers for another hour before they parted ways on the floor. Terry moved back to his office and put the list in his safe.

Grace had been gone, out of range, for an hour, and he'd been a complete basket case. It was unacceptable! This, then, would always be his life. The worry, the frantic wondering, and the uncontrollable elements. It was impossible! This was the price he paid for having such a woman, for hoping to have a life of love and leisure with her. The constant fear, the unsettling feeling in his stomach. It was a very strange and gripping price to pay, and Terry Benedict wasn't sure he was ready to pay it.


	54. Chapter 54

Chapter 54

She stared out the window on Christmas Eve, her arms crossed. If she squinted just so, everything would blur, and it would almost look like rain or snow outside. Sighing, Grace turned back to the table, where work was spread out. She'd fallen asleep with her head on a pile of manila folders, but it'd felt so good to take a nap.

Yesterday had been a brief visit to the clinic, where they'd confirmed she was a month along, and Grace had tried to ignore the pull of fear and excitement in her belly. So much for being careful. She could not believe how easily she had gotten pregnant – twice now – and the only thing that kept her from being truly happy was the knowledge that she would likely miscarry yet again. It would serve no purpose to think about this child as coming to term, and therefore she forced herself not to speculate how and when she would tell Terry. There may be no need.

Running her hand along the binding of her appointment book, she glanced at the clock. It was midnight, and after her nap, she wasn't the least bit sleepy. What did one do with oneself during the holidays, when one was alone? She'd never been alone for a holiday – even after Paul's death, there had been family outings, group gatherings, or at the very least, a party with friends. This was almost painful in comparison. How had Terry done it all these years?

As she thought about him, her phone rang, startling her. He seldom called her these days; she wasn't sure if he was trying to put distance between them, or if he was still puzzling on how to reconcile his desires with hers, his fears with the reality of his work. She knew her answers, but he had just started to consider his. It still didn't make it any easier; every day apart from him dragged horribly slow. Her body almost ached with the separation.

It was Terry, and she answered, wondering what he would possibly want.

"Grace. Come up to my rooms."

She hesitated, looking at her tall evergreen tree. "Would you like me to bring anything? Scotch? Whiskey?"

"No need."

"Alright. I'll be there in five minutes."

He hung up shortly, and she followed suit, wondering what had gotten into him now. She hoped she could figure out a way to get around drinking heavy liquor, and pulled a soft wrap out of the closet to match the loose white linen pants and satin shirt she wore.

As she took the elevator up to his rooms, she wondered if he'd like the gift she'd bought him. It had been something she'd put together in Boston when they were still very much in love and happy. When Christmas had rolled around and they were hardly speaking, she considered picking up something else, but decided against it. This gift had meaning to her, and perhaps, hopefully, to him.

Knocking softly, she waited for the sound of him behind the door, and raised her face to a blandly happy look as he opened it. She would have to try to keep her emotions in check.

Without a word, he ushered her in, shutting the door firmly behind them, and relieved her of the package.

"Please – just go ahead and open it," she called out. He paused. He'd taken off his jacket; a sure sign he was ready to stay in for the evening. His white shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and his dark vest strained against the muscles of his back as he reached across the table to rip open the brown wrapping.

She came to stand next to him, breathing in his familiar scent, feeling her body call out to the nearness of his. As he cleared away the bubble wrap, she felt more than heard his surprise.

"Where did you get this?" He pulled the leather bound volume near and began to page through it thoughtfully. "How did you—." He stopped when it came to a black and white, slightly out of focus close up of a rumpled bed, with a view of the southern France harbor through the large balcony.

"I took most of them when you were out of the room, or still sleeping," she explained, looking again at the thick pages of full, blown up photographs of their trip to France. Most of them were slightly abstract, nearly all were black and white.

"I hardly saw you with a camera," he said, wonderingly, taking the book to the couch and sitting with it. Grace went to perch on the arm of the furniture, watching him slowly page through it a second time.

"I know it's nothing extraordinarily expensive," she began, but he stopped her with a hand on her thigh.

"It's beautiful, Grace. Original and unique." He looked at her, stood, and brought his lips to her forehead, paused, then kissed her mouth. They hadn't touched for weeks, and Grace found herself melting to him, standing to pull him tighter. Their kiss lasted for what felt like hours; his hands massaging her back and hips and buttocks, and she familiarized herself with the taunt muscles of his torso. It was like coming home again, and Grace, knowing herself to be a bit more emotional than usual, tried to hold back the tears of happiness and contentment she felt boiling at the back of her throat.

When they finally broke the kiss, she rested her hands and cheek against his chest, where she felt his heart beating hard.

"I'm glad that you still like to kiss me," she whispered. His arms tightened around her briefly.

"Why would I not?" he asked.

Unable to stop from asking, though she knew it might ruin the mood, she put lightly, "We've been...apart. I know you've been spending a lot of time with models—."

"Grace." He pulled her away just enough so he could see her face. His face held no confusion; he knew exactly to what she was referring. "Those are my clients. And if they were ever even remotely interested in starting an affair, I would not be interested. I don't have time for them. I only lust…burn…for you."

His tone was rough, earnest, almost severe, as if appalled she would dare think such a thing of him, and his dark eyes bored into hers.

"But yet—."

"Here," he cut her off, taking a hand from her waist to dig in his pants. "Merry Christmas, my love."

She felt her throat catch again, remembering how he had finally said he loved her, that he obviously still did, regardless of their current situation of self-induced separation. Terry did not use words carelessly.

He kept his hands on her hips as she took the velvet box. Opening it, she saw a pair of diamond earrings; exquisitely filigreed, and quite her taste, for though they were not overly large, they were classics.

"Oh Terry," her fingertips lightly touched the diamonds embedded into the white gold. "Once again, you've left me a little at a loss for words. They're so gorgeous. I hardly feel worthy." The phrase was often used, but no less sincere.

"Don't, Grace," he admonished, and put his hands over hers, closing the box and putting it deftly to the side as he began to kiss her again. "I love you; you're worthy. Don't ever forget it."

His admittance again made her feel overwhelmed with emotions; he loved her, but he shunned her, though he obviously desired her. Where had this come from? Was he still thinking of a possible future with them? She'd hardly dared hope he'd get to that point of decision. Ever. She had no idea what to think, and instead allowed herself to be consumed.

He laid, naked, next to Grace. It had to be the wee hours of the morning. Grace laid next to him, her body curled close and her head on his shoulder, her hair spread out around the pillow. She looked beautiful.

He glanced around, then slowly got up, purposefully careful so he didn't wake her. His body still felt hot; making love to her after all this time had done nothing to stem his desire for her, and this had felt like the first time all over again.

Donning a robe, he went back to the couch and picked up the book of photography again. He hadn't known Grace had an eye for artistry, though he supposed it made sense. She had captured the essence of their weekend, of southern France, in a few snapshots, really. He was touched and impressed.

There was a stirring behind him, and he saw Grace wander out, wearing his white dress shirt. She looked tousled and tired, but her face was serene. It felt right to have her back, in his bed and with him.

"I tried not to wake you," he said, raising his arm to circle her as she came to rest on the couch next to him.

She sighed, softly and contentedly. "My body is in tune to yours; I was already awake when you left."

They sat silently together; Grace pulled the jewelry box close and opened it again, gazing on the diamonds before closing it and putting it back. He knew she was pleased by his gift, but he also knew that had he given her something half the price she'd feel the same way.

"Grace," he said quietly, into the silence of the early Christmas morning. "I do love you."

"I know," she said, just as quietly.

He took a moment to feel the warmth of her body through his shirt, and ran his hand along her hip. "I would marry you, if I could guarantee your protection."

He felt her freeze, then she glanced up at him, shifting so she could look him at him squarely. "You're telling me that this William Bank is the reason you won't marry me? The only reason?"

Terry stopped, considering. He'd spent the last two weeks weighing his options, and in the end, it did come down to her protection, and her safety. Even assigning her bodyguards was not always an option; he hadn't even started to wonder what would happen to her business out east. But that was her concern, not his, and he had no doubts they could manage. His worry about Bank was the overshadowing menace in the near future, and it showed him that it would never end - something would always be looming.

"It isn't, Grace. But it is all the same. If it is not Bank, it's someone else."

She gave a coarse laugh, then became instantly serious, looking him straight in the eye. "I'd rather take the risk to stay here, Terry, than go back to Boston. I don't want to be alone, without you."

Her earnestness made him close his eyes slowly against the power of her words; he had to stay strong; he could not make her any promises until the last few elements were in place. And even then he would worry of her, this he knew.

"To marry you – I would be in constant fear of your life, of your safety."

"That passes."

Her dismissiveness made him open his eyes, and lift a brow. She continued, pulling his hands to her lap, and kissing his fingers. "The sharpness of worry and fear—it passes. It will always be there, but it becomes a way of life, and a part of it. It is love."

"Not love. The price you pay for it," he corrected her, feeling largely and suddenly out of his element.

"I suppose that is one way to look at it," she admitted, stoic and calm in the face of this life changing discussion. "But to purposefully ignore love, to avoid the pain of it in whatever shape it comes...it is a rather lonely choice."

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable discussing matters of the heart so blithely. He decided not to rejoin her comment, and instead turned back to the French photographs. Grace remained silent; she innately understood that the conversation had finished for the time being, and he was once again grateful for her intimate understanding of his nature.


	55. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

New Years Eve.

It was eight in the morning, and Grace and Shannon were pouring over the production guides for the day, ticking off last minute props and divvying up phone calls. They had a last staff meeting in an hour.

"Do you think Mr. Benedict will be happy with what we—you've—done?"

"I hope so," Grace said shortly. She didn't like to think of Terry much, if she could help it. This job had enough stress as it was. Since Christmas, they'd put space between them again, almost as if by unanimous agreement. He wasn't ready for her, and she wasn't emotionally able to hang on, hopeful. There were too many moving pieces for her, and if Terry refused to be part of her life, she would barrel through without him. It'd been done before. She'd have to figure out how to handle a child, too, if this one came to term, but that was months away – she would have time.

The staff meeting went well, and before she knew it, she was changed into her bright white, close-fitting dress, a splash of sequins down her hip and satin rosettes trailing down her shoulders and stood with a clear earpiece in one ear, her iPhone in a hand and her clipboard in the other.

She marched through the lobby of the Bellagio, and noted the cars had begun to show up.

"Grace, are you on your way?" It was her sound guy. "I just want to make sure I've got the right first songs prepped before the bands start."

"Yes, Roger, I'm almost there," she said into her mic, and continued to stride through the draped hallways, where the lighting was blood red, and crystals hung from the ceiling, interspersed with white orchids. When she threw open the ballroom doors, the scent of roses and lilies overpowered her nose, and she saw Shannon out of the corner of her eye, putting the finishing touches on the tables. The ropes were already up, the acrobats warming up in the corner, and the swings made completely out of flowers were ready for the actors.

She marched 'backstage,' hearing the clattering of the kitchen staff, answering a quick timing question from one of the new sous chefs, and found all the actors putting the finishing touches on their costumes.

"Places, everyone. The guests are just arriving out front," she called, and got nods from the backstage hands, who began to shuffle out the actors dressed in 1950's Hollywood attire, a few mimics in the crowd. The actors posing as moving live tables were already getting their appetizers put on their costumes.

Moving back out to the main ballroom, Grace watched the lights dim to a perfect pitch of darkness, purples and gold. There was amber lighting with a pattern on the dance floor, and with a nod from her, the musicians stopped warming up and began to start playing a serious tune. There would be several acts, all setting up in stages around the room, constantly changing the focus of the party to different areas of the ballroom, with dancing troupes of actors ready to perform at each section.

She could see each of her staff in the evening glow. Tonight wasn't a wedding, and she'd requested they all wear white, which made them easy to find, as well as a little festive. There was a whiff of air as the kitchen doors opened and all the servers came out, with LED trays and dry ice, in one long line, prepped for the open doors.

With another nod, the welcoming line of actors glided out to stand in predestined spots along the draped and lit walkway. When they opened the doors, she heard the murmur of bodies, held back several paces by security and white velvet rope.

Suddenly, she realized it was over. Grace had finished the project that had changed her life. Though the evening would continue to require concentration, the night had arrived. After this, she would go upstairs, pack, and go back to Boston. Her heart began to beat very fast, she felt slightly faint. What would she do with the emptiness Terry left in her life? Even raising his child – alone – would not be enough, this she knew. Losing a love was never easy, and had he not entered her life, she'd still be mourning Paul.

For a second, she felt the tears rise up. Was it relief? Fear? Sorrow? She didn't have another moment to think about it, because the doors opened, and the first guests began to trickle in. The ticket to the Bellagio New Years gala was several hundred dollars, and the people had dressed the part. The actors moved forward, and once a good chunk of people had gotten their champagne, the servers surged forward as one line, then dispersed amid the crowd, giving a very dramatic push to the presentation.

"Well, so far, so good," it was Shannon at her elbow.

"It's very early," Grace mentioned.

"Will I get to meet your Terry?"

"He's not really mine, you know," she said tightly, and Shannon glanced at her, knowing it was a sore subject, if only because any reference to Terry over the past days had been met with Grace's dismissive responses. "But yes, I'm certain Mr. Benedict will be here."

"Mr. Benedict?"

"We're working, aren't we? I'm certain he'll call me Ms. Bery."

Shannon was silent for a second. "Well, if he loves you, I doubt it."

Grace raised her eyebrows, determined to keep it light. "We're in Vegas. Twenty bucks says it's Ms. Bery. Mrs. Bery if he's feeling irritated."

"Only twenty? You're on!"

Then there was a rustle on their earphones, and they were split up again to answer a few questions about the next band, and to check on the kitchen timing.

Terry walked into his ballroom. He had very few expectations, other than he expected to be amazed. The first thing he noticed was the scent, and when his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he felt his eyes widen slightly. Though he was in business demeanor, welcoming clients and high rollers and the like, he couldn't help but glance up at the acrobats hanging from his light fixtures, the actors swinging on flowers from the ceiling, and the constant spin of draping, music, dancers and food. It was intoxicating, even for his jaded senses.

The meal was just getting started, though most guests were just sitting down. His security guards cleared the way discretely, and he took his place next to a few barons and whales from Japan. They'd paid extra to sit with him. He was the only one without a date; there was one man at the table with his two models, both of whom were feeding him strawberries from one of the appetizer plates.

He looked around slightly for Grace, but couldn't find her without obviously twisting around. Instead, he ended up schmoozing with Jim Satamoto, and his favorite concubine. The food was very good, which he expected, but displayed very differently, with more architectural height that normal. The music was light, but the moment the dessert was brought out, a third band began to play at the same time and song of the other, until the first melted away and the new band began to pump up the vibe. A second round of cocktails was brought around. Without being asked, a whiskey was set before him, and he smiled to himself. Grace.

The music was just fast enough for a party to get started, and there were enough young women to get on the dance floor, encouraging the men to join them. During certain numbers, costumed actors were brought out and danced like they did during the '40's. Terry was able to get up and begin to mingle, and when he turned around again, tables had been broken down, and a new dance floor had been created by different patterned lights.

There wasn't even a break before a fourth band began, with another round of dancers starting off the evening. This band played a lot of Sinatra, and the floor was choked with groups of people.

"This is quite the party!" the German baron who had been entertained with Grace a few months prior was suddenly standing there with him. "You outdid yourself this year."

"I can't take the credit. G—Ms Bery did it," Terry mentioned, keeping the pride from his voice.

"Really?" The baron's wife was there as well, and her eyes went to the ceiling again. He could tell she was impressed. "Tell her I'll want her information."

He nodded, filing away the information. Ferdinand was on the floor with a woman, and he nodded at the count, and moved on, his eyes still looking for Grace. His guards stayed out of his way, and suddenly he saw her.

She was standing on the other side of the dance floor, near the band, and he saw her check her phone. She was wearing a tight fitting white dress, and the sparkles on her hip hit the light perfectly. He stood there and found himself rooted there, as the lights slightly dimmed and she turned to the bandleader, saying a quiet word. He wanted to go to her, but knew he shouldn't. She was working, she was a professional.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen. We are on countdown for the new year. In fifteen seconds….ten, nine, eight, seven."

As his guests turned to the band in expectation, Terry found Grace's eye. Her face brightened and she smiled slightly at him, but she did not move to him either.

At once, the band struck up with a very emotional aude lang syne, and Terry felt himself move across the clustered dance floor of kissing couples, champagne toasts, and falling silver butterflies that sprinkled from unknown corners of the ceiling to stand in front of Grace. He wanted to dance with her, but knew he shouldn't. She was working, and he was working. And in the ceiling above them, his security cameras watched every move they made.

As he reached her, another one of her staff arrived, and he drew himself up.

"Ms. Bery. I must congratulate you. I am very impressed with the delivery of your company. You should be commended."

Her smiled dropped a little, but she nodded in return. "Thank you, Mr. Benedict. May I introduce you to Shannon O'Grady? She's my right hand woman and has been running the Boston headquarters for the past few months."

He put his hand out. "Pleasure, Ms. O'Grady." He wondered how much this Shannon knew about his relationship with her boss. But her face stayed pleasantly neutral, and she shook his hand firmly.

Turning back to Grace, he kept expression dark and set. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. It was the remainder of her fee.

"You've earned this and then some, Ms. Bery."

He handed it over discretely, and she took it, her eyes full of questions, but she didn't say anything. For a moment, they were connected via the paper envelope, but then he let go, and let himself smile at her ever so slightly. Bending his head to include her assistant, he dismissed himself curtly, and spent the rest of the evening making small talk, but keeping an eye on Grace, counting the minutes until the party ended, and he could have her alone again. He'd missed her so terribly that he wouldn't even begin to admit it to himself. He'd worried about her being alone at night, thought about all the things he'd ask her about his high end clients, dreamed even of what countries they'd visit together. Thinking about her going back to Boston and not returning would not be tolerated; he'd come up with a plan and meant to talk to Grace tonight.


	56. Chapter 56

Chapter 56

The envelope with the check weighed in her hand. Grace attached it to the clipboard and put it out of her mind. She had expected Terry to be a little more friendly, to be warmer, and when he'd called her Ms Bery, for all she knew she'd won her bet against Shannon, she was disappointed tremendously. He didn't mean to hold her, keep her, and the panic of raising their child alone set in. She felt tired, and went to take a seat at an abandoned table. Ten more minutes and the night would be over. She'd have to set up a staff meeting, and then she'd go upstairs and start packing.

"Grace."

She'd been half hoping to hear his deep voice in her ear. Her eyes closed in relief. He hadn't forgotten her.

"Happy New Year, Terry," she said.

"Mr. Benedict," a voice came above them, unfamiliar and accented, and Grace looked up to see a very distinguished looking foreign couple. Terry moved to say a few words to them, and while she didn't expect to get introduced, she didn't have a chance because Shannon was in her ear, asking about the staff meeting.

She stood, moving away from Terry without glancing at him or his guests, and said quietly, "We'll set something up for tomorrow at two in the afternoon – do a mini post mortum, as well as any last minute paperwork."

Shannon's voice came through; "So, are we done?"

"Yes. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be heading up shortly as well to start packing."

And with that, she was there beside the band, thanking them for their work, dismissing all the talent and models, and generally spinning in one last circle around the room. As the guests left to multiple after parties, the cleaning staff was moving in to clean up. Grace felt her shoulders slump, and a pain hit her in the gut. This was it. Over.

She moved toward the doors, nodding at the last few security guards, and making way for the VIPs still straggling out.

"Grace, wait," there was a hand on her arm, and she turned around to see Terry holding her, his face hidden in the shadows. "Perhaps dinner? Or drink?"

"No, thank you," she said softly. "I'm a bit tired, and I should get packing."

His hand tightened slightly on her flesh, but then he released her only to put his fingers on her lower back.

"Then come into my office for a quick minute," he amended, and feeling odd to be walking next to him, she fell into step. They walked past her draped hallway, past the guests, and his pace was quick and precise.

She worked to keep up with him, and was thankful that his office was nearby. They entered, and the mirrored door closed behind them.

He marched over to his desk, and she felt apprehension well up. He was going to make a demand of her.

"What are your plans for the week after New Years?" he asked abruptly.

She gave a soft laugh. "Nothing, it's the slow season."

He spun to face her, still business. "Let's go back to France."

The world seemed to tilt around her, unsteady and exhilarating. Putting a hand unwittingly to her belly, she shrugged, still noncommittal. "Terry, you know I want to be with you."

"Good. Then it's settled." He turned to his desk, punching a few numbers into the safe built into the left top drawer. "And will you wear this for me while we're there?"

He pulled out diamonds, and for an instant, Grace only saw the glimmer of the jewels before she realized he was holding a ring between his thumb and forefinger. For an instant, her heart froze. But when she met his eyes, and she saw that they were soft with hope, she knew he meant to marry her.

"My God," she breathed, and nearly ran to him across the room, throwing herself into his arms, where he caught her, held her, and kissed her desperately, as if he could never get enough. They parted only long enough to get the ring on her finger, and then he was kissing her again, murmuring against her mouth how much he loved her, had missed her, needed her. And she believed him, and accepted it, regardless of how much danger that put her in, how difficult life would be. It was too short as it was; she'd rather take the happiness she was given than worry about all the pettiness that comes with it.

The phone rang, splitting them apart, though he kept a hand on her waist. Terry frowned, "It's security." He picked it up. "What is it?"

For a moment, he listened, obviously irritated, but then his face twisted into a grin. "Thanks, boys."

He hung up and smiled ruefully. "And that is precisely why I do not allow my personal life to be viewed in front of the cameras."

Grace found herself laughing. "The security guys called to congratulate us?"

"The staff will all know by morning."

She looked up at the cameras again, then suggested quietly, "I have a gift for you in my suite, if you'd care to come up."

"You already gave me a gift," he said, and she knew he meant her agreeing to marry him. She shook her head. "This is for New Years."

He took her hand, casual and at ease now. "I didn't get you anything."

"Terry," she fluttered up her left fingers. "I think this is more than enough, and more than I was ever expecting."

He leaned in for a quick kiss as they walked out. "Happy?"

"Divinely." Grace felt her heart lift, her body felt light, and she could not get over the strangely heavy and slightly familiar weight of diamonds again, hanging onto her wedding finger. It was comforting.

They took the elevator up, and she gazed at the diamonds, noting the clear color, the clean cuts.

"Do you like it?" Terry asked her, and she smoothed away his worried crinkle, saying warmly,

"Of course I do. It's lovely. What it stands for…that you picked it out for me…that means so much."

She didn't feel very coherent, and felt herself getting nervous as they got to her suite. Now it was her turn for the reveal, and thankfully Terry made it slightly easy by walking in and going straight for the kitchen.

"Scotch for you?" he asked. She followed him, waiting for him to pour his own drink first. He looked at her expectantly, the scotch in one hand.

"No, thank you, Terry." He set the drink down, his face unreadable. "I can't have it. You—I mean, we—we're six weeks along." She waved a hand, trying to get it out right, perfectly, romantically. "I mean, I'm pregnant."

For a moment, he just stared at her, and she had no idea what ran through his mind. As an after thought, she added, "That's your New Year's gift, as it were. Happy New Year."

Now it was his turn to rush to her, and as he picked her up, carrying her to the bedroom, she found herself laughing freely. It was done, it was out. No more secrets between them, no more worries.

When Terry laid her down, he pulled off his cravat and jacket, then sat next to her, placing a hand lightly on her stomach, his fingers splayed open to encompass the whole womb.

"Six weeks, Grace?"

She nodded, looking up at his face. "The doctor just confirmed it."

"So no France. You shouldn't travel."

"I can travel for a few months yet, Terry. We may as well do it now."

He nodded slowly, his hand still touching her, rubbing, until it became sensual, sexual, and she reached up for him, needing to feel his nakedness against her skin. He made love to her slowly, carefully, and when they were finished, sated, and quiet, she went up on an elbow to look into his face.

"I love you," she said, openly. "I am so lucky."

She put a hand on his chest, where she could feel his heart. He captured it, kissing the fingers. When she looked into his eyes, she saw they were oddly emotional, and his voice was low and husky; "I'm the one who's lucky, my Grace."


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

Paris was beautiful in winter. Grace stood in a white wool coat, staring up at the gorgeous light of the Notre Dame. The stones were dark and cool, but the light in the rose window was ruddy and gold. She felt the hardness of her engagement ring inside her leather gloves, and once again felt herself lift with joy. She couldn't believe that she was going to be married again, to a man whom she loved more than anything.

She saw Terry speaking with a few priests, a brochure in hand. He found her gaze and gave her a quick grin.

During the past week, they'd spent every moment possible together. Terry was overprotective of her, and had proudly written a statement to the staff, informing them of their engagement and the coming child. He said it was because he wanted the hotel staff to know that they should take care with her, but she knew it was because he was bragging. When they were alone, he would alternately be tender with her belly, which had just begun to curve in the smallest way, or passionate. Thankfully, her pregnancy had raised her hormones enough that she was just as desperate for sex, and they enjoyed their evenings talking honestly about how they would handle Grace's business while living mostly in the desert. Terry was surprisingly supportive of keeping the company running, and even discussed ways to set up a branch office in Nevada. He assumed he'd be moving in with her in Boston, as the idea of letting her go without him for days was unacceptable.

They had even gone to a doctor's appointment together, and if the Doctor had been surprised to see Terry Benedict there, he had not shown it. Instead, the two men had started to talk about the trials of fatherhood, and by the time they left the check-up, Grace nearly laughed. Terry looked thoroughly happy, and she would never have expected to think he would look so excited about being a father.

"Grace, my love," he was there at her side, a hand on her waist. With the announcement of her pregnancy, he had taken to touching her often. "Let's step over here for a moment; there's a small alcove not known by many tourists, I'm told."

He steered her quickly to the side, where there was a low arch, hiding a small side chapel. Two monks stood inside, smiling benignly. Terry took her hand. "What do you say?"

His meaning could not be more clear, though he was far from overzealous with words. She felt her heart come to her throat, and she felt tears press against her eyes. "You mean to get married now? Here?"

He gave a boyish grin, and shrugged slightly. "I talked to some of the friars. Shall we?"

He offered her his arm, and his face was so oddly excited that she forgot her tears and laughed slightly, taking it. "I'd like nothing more."

Terry gazed at Grace in the gloomy light of the chapel. The priests had strongly accented English, and the words that washed over him were surreal. 'Dearly beloved…' He was doing it. Getting married. Feeling Grace's hand in his, answering strongly, his deep voice ringing in the small room, he felt exhilarated. He had a wife. She was perfect, and she was having their baby.

Focusing back on the monks, who had agreed to do this for a modest donation to the church, he saw that they were both smiling openly at them, and when he was allowed to kiss her, he brought her hand to his lips first, then pulled her into a very hard, strong kiss. She responded eagerly, and he had to remember they were in a place of worship and he should keep it clean.

With a thanks to them, he walked with Grace out of the Notre Dame, and when they got into the courtyard, to a bench overlooking the Seine, she turned to him, and he was shocked to see tears in her eyes.

"Grace, what is it?"

In the white and grey of the winter city, her eyes were bright and the bit of green in the hazel was more obvious. "I'm so happy. I can't believe this! We're married…I'm Grace Benedict."

"Well, we still have to do the legal part, the paperwork," he amended.

"And get wedding rings," she added, and he smiled in spite of himself. Yes, he'd have to wear one of those too. He found he didn't mind.

Feeling strangely excited, he pulled them up, and suggested a very fancy lunch. When they arrived at the café, he ordered a small bottle of red wine, and Grace sipped hers slightly, careful not to imbibe too much, though he knew she was craving the taste of good grapes. She smiled at him, and brought up her thoughts about the opening a branch of Sophisticated Events in Nevada, an idea he'd had that she approved.

As they talked, ate, and drank coffee, he pressed his knees into hers, and marveled that she was utterly and completely his. No one would ever take her away, she'd not leave, he saw the honesty of that in her face, beyond the legality of the marriage.

"Do you want to do anything when we get back to Vegas?" she was asking, and he narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending. "I mean, have a bit of a wedding there? You're a very public figure, and you know I love the planning…it would be good publicity for you at least."

He leaned back, caressing the coffee mug. Her eyes were bright, hopeful, and he realized that she, as a planner, wanted to do something to celebrate their wedding. Taking her hand, he smiled.

"Let's. I know you want to, Grace."

"Something small, perhaps mainly inviting the high rollers? And soon."

"Why soon?"

She gave him a shy smile. "Because within a couple months, I'll be decidedly rounder."

"What of it, Grace?" he squeezed her fingers, feeling excitement and pride well inside him. "I'll be happy to show you off then, just as much as now. You'll be just as lovely."

She blushed, and he was as enchanted as usual. Leaning forward to kiss her fingers, he breathed in the scent at her wrist. To think this was his wife's scent, this would be home for him from now on.

They arrived at the villa two mornings after their wedding, and Grace pulled off her white sweater, leaving her arms bare, the tight dress skimming over her curves. Her breasts had grown in the past few weeks, and she liked to show them off for Terry. He would grin wickedly at her when she was more daring with her cleavage, and she liked to tease him with her changing body. The Mediterranean air was thick with salt and warm humid moisture. She felt her skin breathe, and went to the master bedroom upstairs, which she knew she and Terry would be sharing.

She heard him talking with the staff, asking for a specific dinner to be served; no shellfish for his wife, no heavy red wine. She smiled at his tone, obvious even from a floor below; he was proud of the whole thing. She wondered if he was used to wearing the diamond studded gold wedding band yet. He'd been rather giddy when they'd picked out the rings in Paris, and if he felt bashful about the bold statement, he didn't show it.

As she walked into the bedroom, she caught herself from yelping. Three men in black, menacing suits were standing, waiting, their faces impassive and cold.

The shortest of them, wearing a very tailored Italian linen suit, stepped forward. His salt and pepper hair was off set by his very tan skin, and an Italian silk shirt and tie were brightly yellow and white against it. His features were benign, unsurprised to see her, and as he moved forward, so did the security guards, until they surrounded her.

"Ms Bery, so nice to meet you," the man said, clasping his hands behind his back. "I hope you're enjoying your trip to France?"

"Yes," she answered, knowing that staying calm was the best reaction, but her mind was reeling. Did the staff know of these men? Had they been paid off? Was Terry safe; would he come up and find her?

"We've come to chat with your…fiancée…about some rather shady business earlier this year."

Comprehension dawned, but she didn't say that she recognized Willy Bank. Perhaps it would be best if they had no clue how much information she knew. "I'm certain he'll be up in a moment," she hedged. Just as she said it, she heard his footsteps on the marble stairs.

In the split second before he walked in, she felt the rough hands of the security guards on her arms, pulling her away from the doors, twisting her wrists tightly behind her back and holding her in a vise. In a moment of clarity, Grace understood that this situation was precisely what Terry had feared by bringing her close into his life.

As he walked in and stopped short, his eyes taking in the entire situation, Willy Bank continued to act casual.

"Terry. So good of you to meet with us."

"What do you want, Willy?" Terry's voice was rough, low, and abrupt. He kept his eyes averted from her.

"I want answers, Benedict. I want to know what happened to my diamonds."

"I don't know what happened to your diamonds. Let her go."

Both men turned to look at Grace. Willy Bank shrugged dismissively. "Why? I want something, and you want something, so I think we're on even ground."

"At least let her arms go."

"I don't think so." At a glance from Bank, the security guards twisted her arms up, causing pain to ripple through her back, pulling tightly on her chest, and Grace heard herself give a small sigh of anguish. Everything was happening so fast she could hardly think straight.

With that, Terry lost it. She'd never seen him so angry, so suddenly, his temper flashing out without calculation. He strode over, towering above Bank, nose to nose, his hands just barely grasping the man's shoulders, power surging from his shoulders and rage pouring from his eyes.

"God damn it, Willy! I know nothing about your fucking diamonds, I don't know who took them, where they are, or what was done with them! You have no goddamn proof of it, and if you hurt my pregnant wife, so help me God I'll hunt you down so fast you won't stand a chance. Let. Her. Go."

"Pregnant?" Willy had taken a step back, and with a flick of his fingers, his men released Grace, who was not stupid enough to make a sudden move of rushing to the comfort of Terry's arms, but stood, rubbing her skin, not taking her eyes from the scene. "Congratulations, Benedict."

"Get the fuck out," Terry growled, stepping back up. "You have nothing on me, and I've got nothing to hide."

They eyed each other for another full minute before Bank gave an exaggerated sigh. "Very well. I'll let it be. But if I ever—ever—find out that you were part of my diamonds going missing, I will hunt you."

They were gone in a moment, the two goons following Bank out silently, and as they made their way down the stairs, there were the distinct surprised sounds of the staff.

Terry turned to her, and she met him halfway, nearly falling into his arms.

"Grace, Grace," he was muttering into her hair, his arms a band around her, holding her tightly, as he kissed her neck, her face, her lips. She knew she was trembling, and she put a hand to her stomach, assuring herself that everything was safe. Terry's hand matched hers, his fingers splaying over hers, protective and worried.

"Is everything alright, do you think?"

She nodded, bringing her hands up to touch his cheeks. "I'm sure the baby is fine." Kissing him, she leaned her head on his shoulder. "Well, if that's all it is to be your wife, I can handle it. It's very…adventurous."

His laugh was weary, and without letting her go, he pulled them over to the balcony. "I'm so sorry, Grace."

"It's not your fault. Besides, they couldn't do much but threaten. They had nothing on you, though it's a far place for them to travel to have that short chat."

"It's part of the intimidation," he told her, and she felt herself relax with each moment in his arms. Twisting so her back was aligned with his chest, they gazed out over the landscape below. It felt good to be back in France, where she had fallen in love with him, where their romance had blossomed. So much had happened, this most recent escapade hardly bothered her. Perhaps because it had seemed so surreal. Besides, what was done, was done. She was married to this now.

"Well, it's too late for anyone to intimidate me. I'm Mrs. Benedict, you know," she said lightly, and was rewarded with a more lively chuckle from him.


	58. The End

The End

Two months went by quickly. Grace sat in front of her mirror, putting on all the diamonds that Terry had bought her throughout their relationship. On her wedding finger sparkled the rather large engagement ring, flanked by two bands of diamonds. They'd made it legal shortly upon their arrival; Terry taking them to the courthouse one morning with Charles and Elizabeth as witnesses.

Just starting in her second trimester, Grace could not believe her luck that she had carried a child into her fifteenth week. Apprehension of a miscarriage left her, and now she and Terry were seriously considering the purchase of a home, where they could put in a nursery; something he'd never had to consider before.

Tonight was their wedding celebration, and as she put a dab of perfume on her neck, she saw him come up behind her, bending swiftly to run his hands along her thickening waist and rest his fingers on her stomach. She was wearing a slightly form fitting satin dress, reminiscent of the '30's, and the slight swell of her belly was just discernible.

"What is that scent?" he asked, kissing her neck.

"My usual; Marc Jacobs Daisy," she said, running a hand along his jaw before moving to stand. As she did, she watched his eyes sweep along her frame, and without warning he pulled her close.

"Do you know, Mrs. Benedict," he murmured. "That your ever-rounding belly is incredibly sexy?"

He ran his hands along her hips to squeeze her close before letting her go, and Grace felt warm with desire and love. She could not believe she was married again, and pregnant. That Terry Benedict had chosen her, and loved her.

"Shall we go down?"

"We're a fashionably fifteen minutes late for our own party," he said, adjusting his cravat casually in their mirror. "Think Shannon is starting to worry?"

"I doubt it," she said, reaching up to help him straighten his collar. "But we should head down so all the high rollers know that you're really the reason for this party."

They had invited mostly clients to their wedding party. Shannon was planning it, leaving Grace to simply direct and make decisions. It'd been hastily put together, but was still going to be fun, and having a celebration was all she had wanted. Though they'd had enough on their plate with house hunting and coordinating her business, Terry had actually had quite a hand in making decisions about centerpieces and entertainment. If Grace allowed herself a moment to really think about it, they could just as easily be another couple, simply planning their wedding reception, instead of two very high profile Vegas personalities.

When the doors opened into one of the smaller banquet halls, Terry found himself surrounded on all sides with clients congratulating him. Some of his cronies in the business found their way over, and he kept Grace's arm tucked firmly in his.

As the faces melted together, smiling and nodding, he saw a few characters who he wasn't quite sure had been on the guest list. While not unwelcome, it was a little disconcerting.

After the appetizers began to circle, and the throng of people had redistributed around cocktail tables and the dance floor, Terry watched them approach.

"Terry." Danny Ocean was in a well cut tux, and on his arm was Tess, resplendent in red. She had always looked good in that color. Behind them was Rusty with his double-crossing inspector girlfriend, and amid the crowd were faces popping around curiously. The rest of Ocean's gang had come to pay their respects. Terry wasn't very amused, but he was damned if he would create a spectacle on Grace's day. He knew innately that Ocean had suspected and planned that this would be the case.

"Danny."

Tess was looking at them benignly. She towered over Grace. Glancing at his wife, he cleared his throat.

"Grace, this is Danny and Tess Ocean."

Only because he knew her well did he see the recognition of the name hit her. To Tess, she smiled warmly and extended her hand. "Thank you for joining us. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Tess's voice came, melodious and smooth, "I'm so glad that Terry has found happiness. Congratulations."

"Indeed. Congratulations," Danny's hand came out to grasp his, and without thinking, Terry shook it firmly. They locked eyes, and he realized that this visit was exactly what he had thought; a formality, a paying of respects. They were all even now, and Ocean and his men considered him part of their clique, if only on the fringes. He had friends, as it were, in the underground.

After a brief interlude of chatting, they moved on, and Terry looked down to see Grace's face was paler and withdrawn.

"What is it, my love?" he leaned down, his voice soft. "Is it the baby?"

She shook her head, and smiled up at him, but he saw she was worried. Deciding he would not spend the rest of the evening full of concern, he pulled her out on the dance floor, where out of respect for the newlyweds, their guests gave them wide berth. Without him realizing it, he had already settled into marriage quite easily. The worry and concern was quickly and deftly dealt with - it was, after all, not that much of a price to pay.

As he held her tightly, he muttered in her ear, "Tell me, Grace."

She gave a shuddering breath, then finally whispered back, "So that was your ex-lover. My God, Terry, she's gorgeous. I—I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed at seeing her."

He almost smiled. So his little wife was jealous? Grace would never be able to admit it so baldly, but he knew that's what she implied.

"Grace, you're my wife, and the mother of my children. You're beautiful, you'll always be beautiful. I love you – I have never told a woman that. Danny Ocean is here to support us, to show that he backs my decision to marry you. We've got friends."

She gave a little shake to show she did not completely understand, but then gave her characteristic shrug, looking up at him with the trust he could not believe he deserved sometimes. "Alright, Terry. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For everything. For loving me, for this wedding party, for marrying me."

"You make it sound like it's so much."

"It is," she laughed up at him. "It's everything. It's my life. You're my life now, you know, you and our children."

He didn't respond, hoping his silence conveyed that he felt the same, and with a contented sigh, she settled back against his chest.

Later that evening, with the party ending a bit earlier than most Vegas events, they were standing outside, on a balcony overlooking the Bellagio waterworks. The evening's last show was about to go on, and he felt himself spin his wedding band, enjoying the weight of the gold on his finger, and the warmth of Grace in his arms.

She leaned back, holding onto him, her head resting against his shoulder. He knew she was tired, but they'd decided to come and view the water show before bed. He couldn't believe how early he'd taken to going to bed, but he wanted to be with Grace in her pregnancy, and she got tired more often and earlier. Charles had been kindly picking up the slack. For an instant, he realized he'd want to give the man a very generous bonus for the year.

Grace gave a small gasp and moved up in his embrace, placing her hands on the marble balcony, then putting one on her abdomen.

"What?" he was instantly worried, filled with what was now a familiar fear.

She paused, looking off into the distance, then pulled his hand onto her belly. "The baby. He moved! It—it was a bubbly feeling—there!"

And while he thought he could imagine the flutter under her skin, Terry stood there, feeling overwhelmed for just an instant before leaning in to kiss his new wife. Here at last was proof of his family, of his heritage, beneath his hands; both woman and child.

They stood there, kissing. Then, there was an instant of silence before the music around them began, shooting water into the air in cascades of sparkling diamonds.


	59. Author's Note and Thanks

Author's Note

I hope you've all enjoyed this story - it's a heck of a lot longer than I would have expected, but I felt that so many relationships are breezed over - what about the daily routine, the dinners, the putting on of make-up, and workdays? Perhaps it got a little mundane for some of you, and that's ok. It's as realistic as I could make it, even though I probably made Terry Benedict a bit of a softy towards the end, I hope it was a slow enough transition to be believable.

And while I'd love to continue this, I like to leave them here, on the brink of new beginnings. Plus, I'm only 16 weeks pregnant myself - I'd be hard pressed to write of Grace's experiences without knowing first-hand how it goes.

The husband has actually enjoyed this too - he laughs because he loves these movies, and can see Terry Benedict saying some of the stuff, and he agrees that Grace is definitely not me - she does photography, dances for a work-out, and is far far more professional than I am among other things, (I do music and lifting weights and love it) but I hope the insider scoop of the event world was fun to read. It really can be glamorous, though most of the time it's exactly what Grace is doing - paperwork. Anyway, basically I tried not to make her a Mary Sue. I hope I succeeded. Grace is definitely someone I'd want as a friend - she'd be calm in the face of my passion.

Thank you for all of you who have stuck by and read this whole long thing. My sincerest joy was sharing this!

Much cheer!


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